


Chionophobia

by TJade



Series: Grim Fairy Tales [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I think this counts anyway, Other, Slice of Life, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 49,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TJade/pseuds/TJade
Summary: Guardians, Nightmares, and Death. Oh my!Don't fret about what the title may imply.There's no need to fear snow here: all's perfectly fine!Oh, and from Grim to Jack:"Knowthatyouweremine."
Relationships: E. Aster Bunnymund & Original Character(s), Jack Frost (Guardians of Childhood) & Original Female Character(s), Nicholas St. North & Original Female Character(s), Nicholas St. North/Original Female Character(s), Pitch Black (Guardians of Childhood) & Original Character(s), Pitch Black (Guardians of Childhood) & Original Female Character(s), Pitch Black (Guardians of Childhood)/Original Female Character(s), Sanderson Mansnoozie & Original Character(s), Sanderson Mansnoozie/Original Female Character(s), Toothiana (Guardians of Childhood) & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Grim Fairy Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631791
Comments: 23
Kudos: 44





	1. Grim Tidings

**Author's Note:**

> To those who read Chionophobia before I deleted it: This is not the same as the previous Chionophobia. However, Grim will still be in this work, albeit less French.  
> To everybody: This takes place after the events of the ROTG movie. All lore will be either based off of what is shown in the movie or made up. There will be no great evil threatening to end the Guardians once and for all. This is just a slice-of-life featuring legends, myths and folktales.

There was an art to making snowballs. Centuries of practice had made Jack Frost quite adept at said art, but that didn’t mean he stopped practicing. Bunny might have called it slacking off, sitting up in a tree and pressing snow into a perfect sphere, but Jack knew better. It wasn’t slacking off, it was warming up (so to speak).

Maybe if he was sitting on the ground, Bunny could’ve caught a closer look at what Jack was doing and gained a greater appreciation for the workmanship Jack put into his snowballs. Jack didn’t like sitting on the ground, though, not any more than Bunny enjoyed clambering up trees. Something about the higher position was just more ‘at home’ for him. It afforded him a good view of kids enjoying their snow day (another example of his _not_ slacking, Bunny, thank you very much) and made it easier for him to ambush unlucky passerby while making it harder for he himself to be sneaked up on.

When Jack realized that someone was behind him, then, he could be excused for almost falling out of the tree.

He whirled around, grabbing his staff and jumping down from his perch. Raising his staff defensively, Jack turned slowly, feet crunching in the snow as he scanned his surroundings for potential threat. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shadow.

“Pitch?”

His hesitant call was answered by a chuckle, followed by a velvety voice.

“I understand we might have similar fashion sense.”

Jack felt the chill of metal press hard on his cheek. He glanced down to see a dull gray blade resting against his face. Looking up, he saw someone in a long black robe.

Someone who was _not_ Pitch Black.

A thin white face grinned skeletally down at him. Pale lights shone like fireflies from empty-eyed sockets. Again the specter spoke, her tones tinted with condescension.

“But does the Boogeyman go around swinging a scythe?”

Jack thought back to Pitch’s last great hurrah, when the Nightmare King had tried to stab him in the back before getting whipped (literally) by Sandy.

“I mean, sometimes.”

The Reaper (because of course it was the Reaper, who else could it be?) frowned, apparently taken aback by Jack’s blunt reply. “Oh.”

There was an awkward silence. Before Jack could decide whether to break the ice (ha ha) the Reaper beat him to the punch.

“Well, I’m not Pitch,” she stated lamely.

Jack nodded. “I kind of guessed.”


	2. Mutual Acquaintance

Grim didn’t know what she’d been hoping for.

The boy obviously didn’t recognize her. She hadn’t really expected him to, although perhaps it would have been nice if he had. Then again, if he had recognized her he might’ve felt threatened, might’ve tried to fight her or just run away.

(Like everyone else)

She leaned on the handle of her scythe, watching the boy mirror her action with his staff. His eyes followed her hand as she reached into the collar of her robe.

“I take it we have a mutual acquaintance, then.”

He cocked his head. “You know Pitch?”

“Mmm.” Grim withdrew a tiny hourglass pendant from her collar, pulling at the chain around her neck until it went taut. She rubbed the pendant with her thumb, not meeting the boy’s gaze. “It would be rather improbable for the Reaper and the Boogeyman to never have crossed paths all these centuries. Especially since death and darkness run in so many of the same circles.”

“I’ll bet.” The boy smiled. “You don’t like him either, huh?”

She returned his smile, rolling the pendant over her knuckles. “Oh, I’m fond enough of him. When he’s not stealing my signature.”

Frost scoffed. “Fond? Of Pitch? You’re joking.”

Grim felt her smile tighten along with her chest. She caught the hourglass pendant between two fingers, letting the chain trail down her arm. “Someone being fond of him…” She chuckled, dropping the hourglass into her palm. “Does it surprise you that much?”

The boy scoffed, using the end of his staff to trace icy patterns along the ground. “We are talking about someone who tried to destroy Christmas, Easter, the Tooth Fairy, happy dreams, and would’ve _killed_ a _kid_.”

She bit her lip, twirling her scythe. “Alright, so I understand why he’s not winning any popularity contests.”

Frost laughed, his eyes bright as the sun glinting off the snow. Grim felt the corners of her mouth pull upwards in spite of herself. _The Guardian of Joy indeed. Well picked, Mim._

She opened her hand and let the pendant dangle from its chain, the sand in the hourglass trickling down. “But eternity is a long time to spend without a friend, even more so when your very existence is abhorred by most. Why shouldn’t the Grim Reaper be friends with the Boogeyman? It’s not as if anyone else would befriend us.”

Grim tucked the pendant back beneath her collar, glancing over at Frost as she did so.

“So no, I’m not joking. I’m…”

She allowed herself a grin as she finished her sentence. “DEADly serious.”

Grim took in the boy’s inscrutable expression as he processed what she’d told him. Was that sorrow? Pity? Conflict as he contemplated his nemesis’s relative friendlessness?

Finally Frost rolled his eyes and turned on his heel. “Bye.”

Grim nearly dropped her scythe as she scrambled after him, struggling to catch him before he called the wind to fly him off. “Hey! WAIT! There was something I wanted to talk to you about!”


	3. You Were Mine

_Darkness. That’s the first thing I remember._

**_You don’t remember everything._ **

_It was dark, and it was cold. And I was scared._

**_Most are._ **

It had been a full moon that night, of course. Mim was far from what Grim would call dramatic, but he did have a flair for setting the stage.

She’d been standing in the middle of the lake, her cloak brushing the opaque ice on which she stood when she’d heard him.

_Then I saw the Moon._

**_He told me to leave you._ **

_It was so big, and it was so bright._

**_He had…plans for you, he said._ **

She’d gazed up at him- first in shock, then in disbelief, then in anger. How dare he? How dare he presume to interfere with her design? The Man in the Moon could pick his favorites, yes. He was free to bestow his blessings on anyone he wished, appoint his ‘Guardians.’ It didn’t matter to Grim. Enough people died that letting a few fly beyond her grasp was hardly an issue. But the boy- this boy- he was _hers._ Let Mim keep his immortal ones, but the boy would not be doomed to eternal life if she had a say in it.

And she _did_ have a say in it. One couldn’t _not_ have a say in it if one’s was the only voice in the matter.

She passed through the ice as easily as the cold seeping through to the water below.

**_I ignored him, of course. I have always ignored the whims of others. Great or small, rich or poor, strong or weak: none could command me._ **

She didn’t swim, exactly: there was no flailing of arms or kicking of feet. Instead, she drifted over to the boy, her cloak enveloping him like a shadow.

He was so pale.

She smiled at him, caressing his face, running her thumb over his lip.

“You’re so young,” she whispered as her eyes flickered over his face.

Grim wrapped her arms around the boy and kissed the red from his mouth, his cheeks, his nose. His blood stilled in his skin, and the Reaper saw the flush of youth fade and shift to the chilled tones of a corpse.

**_I left my mark on you._ **

She drifted away, and watch the boy be swallowed in moonbeams as he floated up to the surface of the lake.

_It seemed to chase the darkness away._

**_He didn’t “chase” me. I left of my own accord. I let him have you. Whatever he might make of you, you were mine._ **

**_Or so I thought._ **

**_He bid me stay away from you. I acquiesced. Why should I fight to keep what already belonged to me? You would seek me out, eventually. I was sure of it._ **

**_Even immortals tire of living._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently everything I write turns to angst


	4. We've Met Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Darth Vader voice): The angst is strong with this one  
> Guys I promise this wasn't supposed to be as sad as it turned out, it just happened, I don't know how

“What are you blathering on about?”

Nightmares might have been cowed by the Boogeyman’s scowl, but Grim held the advantage of familiarity. Pitch’s fearsome expression had long lost any power of intimidation over the Reaper.

“He was _supposed_ to be a neutral party. Mim cheated!” Pitch snapped.

Grim kept a straight face as she answered. “Is it cheating, then, to claim an inevitable victory?”

Pitch’s scowl deepened to the point where Grim was sure his shadows were casting shadows. “It _wasn’t_ inevitable. I would’ve won, if-”

“It isn’t cheating to hold back some of your cards until it’s time to play them,” she pointed out. “You had your own ‘wild cards,’ did you not?”

She doubted the Boogeyman appreciated the reminder, especially since some of his own Nightmares had taken to tormenting him in the wake of his defeat. It was a testament to their…not friendship, exactly, but long held-acquaintanceship that Pitch merely acknowledged her statement with a grunt and not an attempt on her un-life.

“Well, how was I supposed to foresee a new Guardian?” he grumbled, mostly to himself.

Naturally, Grim replied anyway. “You _weren’t._ I rather suspect that was the point.”

She wasn’t certain whether Pitch’s murderous glare was directed at her reply or the smirk she wore as she gave it, but in either case she judged it an appropriate time to leave.

“I see I’ve worn out my welcome,” she remarked as she prepared to make her exit.

“You wore out your welcome decades ago.”

Grim laughed. “By the by, would you have any idea where this ‘Jack Frost’ might be now? I should pay my respects to the newest Guardian.”

Pitch’s scowl didn’t deepen, on account of it probably being physically impossible for it to do so. “Off making a mess somewhere, no doubt.”

“Thank you, that’s _very_ helpful,” she drawled, adjusting her robes.

Briefly Pitch seemed to struggle with some unseen sentiment before choosing to voice his protest. “I could have won if-”

“It wasn’t cheating, dear,” she interrupted. “Mim was simply being strategic.”

Pitch’s form of snarling reminded Grim of a dog’s- all teeth and menace. “-if you had done your job.”

Grim scoffed. “Excuse me? What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Frost is _dead._ ”

She stiffened.

It couldn’t be. The boy had already been-

“He’s _been_ dead for centuries.”

**_Mim did cheat._ **

Her tears were cold against her face.

**_You were mine. You are mine._ **

**_Why did I leave you?_ **

“Making a mess somewhere,” Pitch had said. She’d be loath to admit it to him, at least anytime in the next century, but he’d been right. The boy was causing a snow flurry in the middle of summer. Granted, it was in Burgess, an area notorious for its rather irregular weather. The occurrence wasn’t terribly out of the ordinary, but there really was no other way to describe the debacle than a ‘mess.’

**_They call me cruel, but life is cruel too. And I hold none of the hurt that life can bring._ **

**_I should’ve been there for you. You should have never had to face loneliness._ **

She’d found him in a tree, making a snowball. She’d crept up behind him, watching for a hint of recognition as he caught her out the corner of his eye.

“Pitch?”

She’d been surprised to hear that the Boogeyman had apparently taken a shine to her signature weapon. She’d been less surprised to hear that Pitch had grown no more sociable outside of his time with her. She was just as friendless as he was, but Grim liked to think that she was at least less megalomaniacal.

It hurt more than she’d thought it would when the boy didn’t recognize her.

**_Even immortals tire of living, especially of living alone. I abandoned you thinking you’d come to me of your own accord. And now…_ **

Now he was resplendent, practically glowing in his joy. Now he was powerful. He was beautiful, but he’d always been beautiful. Her beautiful frozen boy, forever a child, because she’d burn in hellfire before she’d let life mar him with the harshness of age and worry.

**_You’re one of them._ **

**_You’re a Guardian. As long as children believe, you’ll never know death._ **

**_You’ll be forever young. Forever his._ **

**_Forever prone to all the hurt and heartbreak of being alive._ **

He smiles when she jokes, and she feels as if her heart will shatter like ice under a pick. He doesn’t know her, because of course he doesn’t know her. She never gave him the chance to. There’s centuries of distance between this young man and that boy drifting in the water. He doesn’t know her, doesn’t need her, will never need her now.

**_But who am I to tell you that? Now you have purpose. You’re happy._ **

**_I have no claim to you now._ **

His blue eyes strike her through to her soul. Does she even have a soul?

“So what did you want to talk about?”

Grim can feel her mouth tighten involuntarily. She thinks she’ll have to force a smile, but it comes naturally, sweet and gentle and sad.

“We’ve met before, you know.”

There are scars on her back, from a time long before the boy. Twin scars, burning like brands between her shoulders as they talk.

“No kidding?”

“It was after you fell in that lake. You wouldn’t remember.”

**_Because of course he wouldn’t._ **

“Huh.” His brow scrunches, and she resists the urge to smooth it, to kiss his forehead and reassure him that it’s all right, even though it will never be all right, because the chance for that had passed over three centuries ago. He cocks his head, squints, and she sees wariness cross his face. “You’re not here to…um…”

Grim jumps in as he hesitates. “No, no. I just wanted to check in on you.”

He’s surprised. Of course he’s surprised. Why would a stranger care a whit about his wellbeing? “Really?”

She shrugs, and regrets the gesture as her scars flare in unison. “I would’ve sooner, but…”

Her sentence trails, and he picks up the thread. “Reaping season?”

She laughs. It’s not as if he’s wrong, really- even if she hadn’t been forbidden from seeing him, her circumstances would certainly have prevented visiting often. “Something like that.”

His smile is genuine, and she half-expects the havoc he’s wreaked around them to melt at the warmth of it. “Well, nice to meet you- or see you again, I guess.”

Her scars throb. She ignores them. What else can she do? “Good to see you too.”


	5. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everybody!  
> Grim says some things she might regret.  
> Oh well, hindsight's 20/20  
> And we haven't got to the good part yet.

**_Before…_ **

**_Before, with a capital B. That’s what we call it. Before the Man in the Moon split the world in two. Before there was something that wasn’t scars on my back. Before he chose you to be a Guardian._ **

**_-The- Guardian. The first._ **

**_Do you remember Before?_ **

**_I remember._ **

**_We were all drifters, back then._ **

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He had no name. None of them did.

He was small, compared to most of the others. His enemy, his opposite, was tall and dark and sharp, contrasting his golden glow and soft features.

He passed by a tiny cave, and paused, and looked back. There was something in there, something dark and sharp. Whether it was tall he could not tell, for it was scrunched up in the shadows. He drew closer.

The thing pulled away, huddling into itself. He caught a glimpse of black feathers shrinking behind it.

His enemy had no wings.

He reached out a hand. The thing shrank away, and he moved toward it again, hand still outstretched.

Its eyes were white lights in dark caverns. Twin slits glowing strangely, peering up at him, for although he was small, he floated above it, this dark and sharp and scrunched-up thing. He floated lower, drifted closer, and the lights grew wide and round.

Finally, it placed a hand in his; a bony, clawed hand, colored the same as the shadows around it. It curled its fingers so that its hand fit in his own, small and soft and golden cradling long and sharp and dark.

He made a series of gestures, first pointing to the creature, then to himself, then crooking his fingers and hooking them together, turning them, hooking them together again.

(You. Me. Friends?)

He held out a crooked finger and waited.

The creature looked up at him, crawling forward out of the shadows ever so slightly, and he saw that it was a she. She looked up at him with those wide white lights, lips slightly parted around small, pointed teeth.

Her teeth closed together in a grin, and she hooked her finger with his.

(Friends.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_I hadn’t had any friends before you._ **

**_It never felt quite right, calling you just “friend.” It seemed…inadequate, somehow._ **

**_I tried out other names for you._ **

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Friend.”

She tried the word in her mouth.

“Frieeend.”

She ran her teeth over her lower lip.

“Frrrrrriend.”

The word was fine, but the golden man was more than a friend. She had other friends now, like the shadow man. The shadow man was a friend. The golden man was a…

…a what?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Father?”

She wondered if the word might fit, and so she tried it. The golden man turned around, but his face was confused.

She frowned. It didn’t fit.

The golden man was not her father.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next time she tried a word, he had just braided her hair. He’d tucked a flower behind her nonexistent ear and prepared to fly away, to sprinkle his dreamsand over all the mortals waiting for sleep.

She spread her wings, readying to fly after him.

“Son?” she asked.

He smiled and shook his head as he flew off. (Nope.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They were sitting at a bar together, him with a drink in hand, her with a scythe tucked under her arm as she poured him more wine.

“Wife?” she joked.

She already knew the golden man was not her wife, or her husband, or her lover in any fashion. The shadow man was more likely to be her wife than the one sitting beside her, and although she’d stolen kisses and teased him and gone on walks with him in the moonlit night, she had no interest in the shadow man beyond friendship. The shadow man didn’t even seem interested in that much, but he didn’t really have a say in the matter. He was her friend, regardless of whether she was his.

Her children were her friends as well. Her children loved her, but they were not the best conversationalists. Again, in some respects, the friendship felt one-sided.

Did the púca consider her a friend? Did he even know that she considered _him_ one?

The golden man rolled his eyes. (Ha, ha.)

She smiled and took a sip from the pitcher before topping off his cup.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She was polishing her scythe when the word came to her.

“Brother?” she called out, almost jokingly.

She was startled when he gave his approval.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_It only took a couple hundred years to figure it out._ **

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Brother, how come everyone _runs_ from me?”

He frowned. (They don’t all-)

“They don’t all run, no. Some _hide._ ”

Her brother hesitated before answering. His eyes were sad as he did.

**_Don’t pity me_ **

(They fear you,) he explained, and she scoffed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_I asked the same questions both times. Both times, your answer was the same._ **

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Why? Why do they embrace you and dread me?”

He dropped his eyes, remembering the first time she’d asked that question, with a condescending smirk on her lips and amused resignation in her eyes.

She wasn’t smiling now, and the only thing he could see in her eyes were tears.

“What is the difference between us?” she demanded, gritting her teeth so hard that he thought they might shatter, and blood would run out of her mouth like the wounds dripping on her back.

He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that his answer could change.

(I don’t know.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_The person who took away my wings mysteriously fell into a coma the very next day._ **

**_They never woke._ **

**_Over the years, as I grew more independent, I noticed you began to give me more space. You didn’t ignore me, far from it. But as I no longer needed protection, you saw fit to find those who did._ **

**_It changed little, and then it changed everything._ **

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She ran, because she could no longer fly, her cloak billowing out behind her in a cruel parody of her wings. Her hair flowed behind her as well, long and black like a trail of smoke from a wildfire.

She felt him grab her hair and stopped to glare at him, the white lights of her eyes burning hot.

“Let. Go.”

In response, he pulled, jerking her head back so that she bent over backwards, her spine arching until she was eye-to- golden-eye with her pursuer.

“Let. GO.”

She spat the words as if they might scar him if she gave them enough venom. The golden man didn’t flinch; instead, he shook his head.

(Not until you talk to me.)

She snarled and twisted out of his grasp with such violence that some wisps of hair parted from her scalp. She watched her brother drop the stray locks in shock.

“Talk? _Now_ you want to talk? Now that you’re a…Protector of dreams, or whatever?”

(Guardian.)

The gently admonishing correction made heat blaze up her back, searing the scars that ached there.

“I don’t care if you’re the tsar. You’re an idiot.” She threw her hands up in the air, curling her fingers as if to figure how she could best strangle him. “You selfish little-!”

He reached up toward her face. She swatted the hand away, realizing as she did so that tears were marking courses on her cheeks. She drew in a breath so sharp it hurt, her throat stinging, straining to keep her treacherous voice from wobbling.

“Don’t you care that you could fade?”

The man in front of her was not her brother. Her brother had a hardness to him, a harshness hidden by his gentle exterior. Her brother was shrewd, not a fool who would stake his existence on the vacillating ‘belief’ of fleeting mortal lives. Her brother was not some weak, soft, melting heart who would let his pity for the unfortunate humans put his own life at stake.

The melting heart in front of her looked up at her. Something lurked broken behind the gold of his eyes, something worn down by endless years and the ceaseless march of time.

(Does it matter?)

She turned away. She had no patience for this pitiful fool who held no regard for his own wellbeing.

“I suppose not. Who would miss you?”

Her eyes flicked to him briefly. “Besides the humans, I mean. And the humans will forget you soon enough.”

She began to walk away, prepared to not spare him a second thought.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_Of course it mattered. If you faded, I’d lose my best friend._ **

**_My only family._ **

**_My brother._ **

**_I wish I had told you so from the beginning._ **

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He intercepted her, holding up a hand with his palm facing his chest. Bending down his middle and ring fingers and keeping them in place with his thumb, he flicked his wrist so that his pointer and pinky wavered toward her ever so slightly.

(I love you.)

She looked away, but not before seeing the tears in his eyes.

“Goodbye, brother.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The snow had been heavy. Sandy wasn’t particularly worried about this- weather did little to affect his sister’s travel- but he did wonder if there was some correlation between the blizzard earlier and Grim being late. Perhaps the cold had snuffed out a few poor souls and she’d had to make more stops than originally planned?

There was a chance she’d simply decided not to come. A part of him was keeping watch for a raven or crow with a missive clutched in its claws. “Terribly not sorry, but I’ve decided to prioritize organizing my skeleton collection,” or something of the like. He was well aware it’d be foolish for him to expect the same sort of cordiality she extended to her other friends.

Sandy paused his musings to observe a moving lump in the snow. Had a rabbit inexplicably decided to burrow through the cemetery? It was too large to be a field mouse. A bit large for a rabbit too, really- maybe a hare. Were hares bigger?

The question proved irrelevant when a furry black snout poked out of the snow with a cheerful “Bork!”

Sandy smiled at the little black dog, reaching down to pet it as he heard a familiar voice.

“Hello, brother dear. Did you bring the good stuff?”

The Guardian of Dreams raised a bottle cheerfully. The Grim Reaper gestured for him to pass it over (he obliged) and popped the cork.

(New recruit?) he asked as she began pouring.

She passed the first glass over to him and started on a second. “Yes, I picked him up in that graveyard over by the hill.”

He smirked. (Very fearsome.)

She grinned ruefully, her glass now considerably fuller than Sandy’s. “He’s definitely a little terror, I’ll tell you that.”

He cautiously bumped his glass against hers, mindful of his sister’s brimming cup, and took a sip. (Like mother like son?)

Grim mock-glared at him, which did little to hide her smile. “How dare you imply I’m anything other than a first-class terror.”

(You learned from the best,) he noted, examining the way the winter sun glanced off the burgundy liquid in his glass.

There was no effort to hide a smile this time. “That I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to wonder if I should change that "Light Angst" tag to just straight-up "Angst"  
> Edit: I did it. It's official. This angst ain't light


	6. Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahoy!

**_I envy her._ **

**_She is beautiful, bright and iridescent, flitting on the wind with wings strong as steel, though they look delicate as glass._ **

**_(I am not beautiful. I am dark, birthed of shadows and decay. My wings were black as a raven’s, with long ragged feathers no matter how much I groomed. Under the feathers, you could see the harsh shapes of bone showing through thin white flesh.)_ **

**_(I miss my wings)_ **

**_She is powerful, a commander of armies, skilled with countless blades. Her kind were made to be warriors, formed from the little birds that drink the nectar of flowers. You can see it in their jeweled feathers as they dance through the air, hypnotizing. Their enemies were often so entranced by their beauty that no resistance was given as they struck the killing blow._ **

**_(I was not made. I have always been, as long as there has been life. I flew like a vulture, circling my prey until they were ready to be plucked apart by my talons. My enemies freeze in my presence, their awe built upon fear, their eyes wide with terror.)_ **

**_(Yet still they have never seen my tears)_ **

**_She is kind, a generous heart that bleeds too much. She sees the suffering of mortals and longs to soothe their many hurts. She strains to alleviate their pain as best she can._ **

**_(I sympathize with them, sometimes, the mortals struggling aimlessly in a world that feels disinclined to give them direction. I do not try to carry their burdens: I have my own to bear. I do not pity them, because to pity them would be to see them as incapable of handling their own hurt. Humans are short-lived, but they are not helpless whelps. They can carry their own burdens without being crushed.)_ **

**_(Which may be more than I can say for myself)_ **

**_I see her look down at me, as she flits by. I see her blazing, an emerald fire, but her eyes are wet when she looks at me._ **

**_(Don’t pity me)_ **

**_(Don’t remind me how pitiful I am)_ **

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tooth looks down at the Reaper from above.

She’s staring up at her, as always, eyes burning hatred at the fairy. Her mouth is set in a grim line, which Tooth supposes is appropriate. Tooth prefers the hard-set scowl over the Reaper’s grin anyway- at least with the scowl you can judge what kind of mood she’s in. The smile has too many facets: whether a genuine expression of amusement, a resigned acknowledgement of a situation, or a mask for simmering anger, she never can tell. Sandy can tell the difference, and she suspects Bunny might be able to (although he’s never confirmed her suspicions). North can at least single out when the Reaper is feeling wonder. Tooth, though? Tooth is completely in the dark when it comes to Grim. She only knows that Grim hates her, though as to _why_ she has no idea.

Maybe it’s because Grim knows that Tooth is afraid of her? Technically, Tooth doesn’t really have a reason to be afraid- she’s immortal, always has been- but she _is._ Part of it is fear on behalf of her girls, whose fear of Death has actual motivation beyond “She’s scary.”

(she watches them bleed out helplessly, tears blurring the sight of their broken bodies)

(the moon shines a little brighter)

(“I can save them,” he tells her, “but there will be a price to pay”)

(“Anything. Anything to save them,” she says.)

(She sees their bodies rise, though their wings aren’t moving, sees them change and shrink)

But most of it is just pure cowardice. Or maybe cowardice is the wrong word- she’s intimidated, perhaps? She has good reason for _that,_ at least. Grim is very intimidating. All sharp angles coating with flowing black, not unlike Pitch.

Pitch, however, does not possess empty hollows for eyes with ghostly lights for pupils. Pitch does not have thin, thin white skin that shows off the shape of the bones underneath. Pitch’s teeth are crooked and strange, but human, not predatory points lined in perfect rows.

(Tooth wonders about Grim’s teeth, sometimes, wonders what memories of eons past they could hold)

She realizes belatedly that she’s staring at Grim, now, has been for a while. She hasn’t been blinking- she wipes at her watering eyes and flies away, feeling two white lights burn into her back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_I watch her go._ **

**_I watch her go, and realize my own eyes are filling with tears as if to imitate her._ **

**_(Do not pity me)_ **

**_(They have never seen my tears)_ **

**_(They never will)_ **

**_(I will never let you see me cry)_ **

****

**_(I’ll save my tears for when I’m alone)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I warned you


	7. Water

Grim has always enjoyed water, in all its forms.

She thinks it’s funny, sometimes, how the personification of Death is drawn to something so inherent to life. Other times it seems fitting, seeing the destruction water can cause, leaving a mess for her to clean up in its wake. For Grim, though, water has a different association: meetings.

It was damp in the cave where her brother first found her. She had gravitated toward it because of the little flying creatures that nested there. Their skin stretched tight over their wings, with no feathers to cover them, but she’d still felt a kinship with these predators of the night. She’d watched them shriek and spin through the air, then return to the cover of darkness when daylight threatened to burn them. She’d watched them press together in clusters, snuggling close, the babes suckling at their mother’s teats. She’d watched them lap with little pink tongues at the pools of damp that formed on the floor of the cave.

She’d missed them, when she’d first left the cave to go with her future brother. Once they’d established enough communication to do so, he’d taken her back to the cave. They’d both taken up residence there for a while, though he mostly came back there to sleep while she lingered in the shadows, imitating the bats’ clicking and chittering, waiting by cavern pools to watch her creature friends lick up the water like little winged dogs.

After all the bats had died, she’d developed a fondness for dogs, especially black ones.

She’d had a black dog with her the night she’d been exploring some caverns and come across the shadow man. She’d been walking along the banks of an underground river when her dog had begun barking at something on the other side. She’d looked up and saw a tall, thin man, cloaked in shadows, watching them from across the running water.

The man had stared at them for a long while before speaking.

“It’s typically considered rude to enter someone’s home without being invited in,” he’d remarked without heat. “Though I suppose it’s too late for you to ask for an invitation now.”

“You live here?” she’d asked as politely as she could manage. “I used to live in a cave as well. It wasn’t nearly as large as yours, though.”

He’d looked at her oddly. “And I should care because?”

“…Common ground?”

He’d glared at her then, eyes flashing silver in the dim. “Get. Out.”

Before she could respond, he’d vanished.

It was the night at the lake that solidified the connection between water and meetings for Grim, which was appropriate, seeing as the lake itself had solidified, sealing ice over its hidden depths.

The boy had been floating there, eyes closed as if he were sleeping.

She remembers the chill of the water wrapping around her, even as she’d wrapped her own cloak around the boy. She remembers the cool softness of his skin as she’d pressed her lips gently to his face.

She remembers him almost seeming to glow as he was lifted up toward the moonlight.

She stares up at Mim, now, standing in the middle of the same lake despite it being the middle of a mild, warm autumn. Next to the lake, a record player starts the strains of a tune she’d thought especially fitting for the situation. She lifts up a hand.

“May I have this dance, old friend?”

Grim twirls in the moonlight, her toes not quite brushing the surface of the water as a beautiful tenor issues from the spinning vinyl.

_Well it’s a wonderful night for a moondance_

_With the stars up above in your eyes_

_A fantabulous night to make romance_

_Neath the cover of October skies_

_And all the leaves on the trees are falling_

_To the sound of the breezes that blow_

_And I’m trying to please to the calling_

_Of your heartstrings that play soft and low_

_And all the night’s magic seems to whisper and hush_

_And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush_

_Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love_

_Can I just make some more romance with you, my love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is Moondance by Van Morrison, although this specific version is the cover by Michael Buble.


	8. Magic

Mim used to have a different name. He can’t remember it, but that doesn’t really matter: everyone calls him the Man in the Moon anyway. Even if he could recall the moniker he was assigned at birth, it wouldn’t matter, because he’d still be the Man in the Moon.

He remembers words, of all forms and textures. Warm, cold, soft, sharp, hard, silken. Others had tossed them around almost carelessly, as if such luxuries could be taken lightly. Not so him. He’d mulled over each one before deciding whether to spend it, and often he’d find spending precious syllables was not necessary at all. On other occasions, he’d find the right words a moment too late, which was as good as if he’d never found them at all.

Back then, no one had expected much of him. He’d been nigh invisible, which was advantageous for a thief.

Now everyone could see him, whether he wished them to or not.

Mim doesn’t regret stealing magic. If he hadn’t been the first to do so, someone else would’ve been, and he doubts anyone else could’ve borne the consequences as well as he. Another mortal, upon becoming _im_ mortal in such a fashion, might’ve been afraid. They might’ve mourned the loss of their family or friends. They might’ve succumbed to madness, isolated in the moon, destined to never again feel the warmth of human touch.

Not that he wasn’t afraid, when he’d first found himself in the moon. He had mourned losing his friends, and there were days where he felt as if he might be going a bit insane. Still, if it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been someone else, perhaps even someone who didn’t even _believe_ in magic.

The person who cuts Grim’s wings is not a believer. They think Grim is a charlatan or a mutant, fooling people into thinking her a god. Which she isn’t, of course, but it isn’t the Reaper’s fault that mortals have assigned her the title, just as it isn’t Mim’s fault that humans sometimes worship him as a deity.

 _I’m not a god,_ he wants to scream down at them sometimes, but he’s never been one to waste precious words on deaf ears. Even before he splits the world in two, even before all magic is cloaked in a veil to guard it from unbelievers, humans only ever see what they want to see.

Mim was the first human to ever wield any sort of dominion over magic, but he can’t do much with it. He can take it, which he already did, but not from others. He can use it to shield itself from the eyes of unbelievers, which is a very specific use that took decades for him to figure out.

The only use he really has for magic now is to give it away.

The first one he gives magic to is the Sandman. Mim calls him the Sandman, and later others call him Sandy, but he has no real name. Even if Mim can’t remember it, he had a real name, but the golden creature who weaves dreams in the night? _His_ only names are the ones that are given him.

The thing is, the magic Mim gives to the Sandman is linked to the belief of humans. There is no end to how powerful the Sandman could become, if enough mortals believed, but there _is_ an end to how much he could be diminished.

You can’t grow smaller if you’ve already vanished, after all.

Grim hates Mim for a long time after he makes her brother a Guardian. She shouts and rails up at him, trapped in the moon, asking him over and over **_how dare you, how could you do this to him, how could you do this to me?_**

 ** _What if he fades?_** she asks, and Mim has no answer to give.

Finally, she stops talking to him altogether. The silence is infinitely worse than the shouting.

When Grim begins talking to him again, it’s because of a Guardian, ironically enough. Or nearly because of a Guardian- the boy is given some magic, but Mim leaves him a choice. All magic depends on belief to be seen, but only a Guardian depends on belief to exist.

If he’d made the boy a Guardian immediately, Grim would’ve killed him, never mind his immortality. Not that he would’ve done that in any case- becoming a Guardian had little point if it was involuntary.

But the boy did choose, as Mim knew he would.

His silence had hurt the boy. He realizes that now, seeing how much happier he is among people who talk and chatter and toss words around without thought. He’d thought the boy would be angry that the Man in the Moon didn’t have all the answers. He’d thought the boy wanted a full explanation of some grand plan from a deity who always knew exactly what to do.

He’d never considered talking to the boy just as a person. No mortal had ever talked to Mim as a person, not since he’d found himself set in the night sky.

Pitch talked to him as a person, sometimes, but it was always as a nemesis, an enemy. Mim had never understood why the Nightmare King was so determined to wage a one-sided war. The Boogeyman seemed to consider the Guardians as some sort of personal attack when Mim had just been trying to protect his own kind. Humans needed to be guarded from fear, especially the young ones.

Grim understood, after eons of snarling and silence and boiling anger that cooled to a leaden acceptance. She came to see that humans’ brief lives were still worth protecting, however short they were. She learned to appreciate the small, quiet moments that mortals loved to steal from the relentless charge of time. She even began to indulge in such moments herself.

Sometimes, she invites Mim to join her.

The Reaper lifts up her hand, and up in the moon, he pretends to take it.

There’s a voice, soft and silken and so very, very human, serenading them. Mim looks down and sees an odd little machine with a circle of black spinning around.

 _The machine is singing,_ he thinks, and is amazed at how alive it sounds.

Grim stands in the middle of the lake, the same lake where he asked her to give up the boy. She hadn’t, of course- back then, Mim should’ve known better than expect her to do so. Now she is older and wiser, perhaps even wise enough to not pick a fight that she cannot win.

If he’d asked her to leave the boy tonight, instead of back then, would she give him up? Mim wonders.

She twirls, the surface of the lake untouched beneath her feet, and he twirls with her. They move together, two immortals destined to outlast the Guardians, humanity, and the world itself. They steal a moment as mortals do, though their lives are endless.

_Well I wanna make love to you tonight_

_I can’t wait ‘til the morning has come_

_And I know that the time is just right_

_And straight into my arms you will run_

_And when you come my heart will be waiting_

_To make sure that you’re never alone_

_There and then all my dreams will come true, dear_

_There and then I will make you my own_

_Anytime I touch you, you just tremble inside_

_And I know how much you want me that you can’t hide_

_Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love_

_Can I just make some more romance with you, my love_

_Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love_

_Can I just make some more romance with you, my love_


	9. Spots

_Danger afraid run hide_

The instinct hits him before he can see a source. Were he a real rabbit (or perhaps just more intelligent) he would run and hide. But he is púca, ancient and powerful, and surely strong enough to rip whatever his instincts are screaming about into tiny fleshy bits.

So he sits and stays, only half-watching for any danger, when the danger makes itself known. Suddenly, he finds himself wishing he’d listened to his instincts.

_Danger_

Púcaí are ancient and powerful, but the danger he had sensed is even moreso. Púcaí are strong, but they also know when they cannot win a fight, and he knows if anything is going to be rent to bits it will not be _her_.

_Afraid_

Of course he fears her. Only fools do not, and although he might not have been smart enough to flee at her coming, he is no fool. Had the banshees announced her coming, as they tended to do, he would’ve been long gone. Heck, had he even glimpsed a dog that might be hers he’d be out of here by now, and not because he was in the form of a rabbit. A black dog could not overpower a púca: their master most definitely could.

_Run_

There is nowhere to run, not from _her._ None have ever outrun her. Briefly he hopes to escape unnoticed, but no amount of hope in the world will save him when he steps on a thorn. He stifles a cry, but it doesn’t matter- like one of her hounds, her nose lifts at the smell of blood, and she turns her head.

_Hide_

Running has never saved any from her, but hiding has, albeit temporarily. He thinks to duck behind a nearby dead tree, or perhaps burrow into its softened wood, but she steps toward him so that her shadow engulfs him and he knows that will not work.

So he hides in a different way.

He could become a goat, and ram her with his horns. He could take the form of a bird, and slash with talons and beak before flying away. He could even be a dog, try to bite her, or perhaps endear himself to her. She’s fond of dogs- her hounds are proof enough of that.

But he knows attacking her will not work for long, and he has little interest in giving up his dignity in exchange for being some fawning pet. Instead, he stands on his hind legs and shifts to a form that’s not a beast at all.

The Reaper doesn’t look startled when she sees a rabbit transform into a man before her eyes. Doubtless she has seen stranger things over her long un-life, but knowing this does not make it less unnerving as she stares at him unflinchingly.

She tilts her head, squinting slightly, and he realizes that he still possesses the ears of a rabbit. He does not try to correct this- he cannot show uncertainty, not now when he’s chosen to hide behind a mask of stoic fearlessness.

“I like your spots,” she says.

Her voice is not like the rasp of a dying mortal or the sigh of leaves in the wind. Her voice is ordinary, and if he had heard her without seeing her he might have thought her human.

She lifts her hand. “May I?”

The Reaper steps closer, reaches out, and he does not move. He nearly holds his breath, but forces himself not to. He does not want to stop breathing in the presence of Death.

She hesitates, and for a moment he thinks he’s won- what fun is it to chase down prey that does not run, after all?- but her expression is strange. Her eyes are weirdly childish, curious lights clouded by just a hint of concern. What could the Reaper possibly be concerned about?

The Reaper draws her hand back, and for the first time he notices her long black claws. He does not wince.

She tugs at her hand, and the claws slip off, along with the black coating her hand. Gloves. She’s wearing clawed gloves, and for a heartbeat he’s tempted to laugh. Then she looks back at him with those childish eyes, and he forgets to make himself breathe.

The concern is gone now.

She pulls off her other glove for good measure, tucking the pair away in the depths of her cloak, and reaches fearlessly towards his face.

He does not flinch as she runs her fingers through his hair, does not blink as she scratches behind his ear lightly, does not let his eyes widen when he sees the Reaper smile.

“You’re an odd one.”

“What’s so odd?” he challenges her, because apparently he _is_ a fool after all.

Her smile widens and she laughs, her expression like a delighted child showing a bug they’d caught to their mother.

“You’re a _brave_ one. Most run, you know. Or hide.” She tilts her head again, appraising him, a rabbit to put in her stew. “I can practically hear your heartbeat. It’s awfully fast.”

He lifts his chin up slightly, even though his bluff doesn’t seem to really be working. “I thought you said I was brave.”

She claps her hands together once, the sound sharp. He holds his ears still. “Oh, you are, you definitely are! It’s very brave to look something you’re afraid of in the eye without flinching.”

_You know I’m afraid? Then stop toying with me._

The Reaper pounces, and all he can see is _teeth teeth too many teeth_

He does not close his eyes, and so he sees her stop just short of touching him.

“Boo.”

The exaggerated movement of her lips as she says it is probably louder than the word itself. Or maybe it just seems quiet because it’s being drowned out by the frantic tattoo of his heart in his unmoving ears.

Her smile doesn’t fade. Is this the last thing people see before they die? A pale, thin face plastered with a perpetual grin?

She steps back.

“Frozen, are you?” she asks, and her face appears almost disappointed.

He glares at her. “If I was paralyzed, I could hardly speak, now could I?”

Her smile returns, like the winter sun piercing through a cloud. “Ha! Clever fairy.”

“Púca,” he corrects her, because his kind are not a bunch of golden-haired, butterfly-winged, egotistic twits. Púcaí technically may be of the fae, but _fairy_ has connotations he prefers not to associate with.

The Reaper rolls something over her knuckles- an hourglass. He sees the glint of a slim black chain trail from the hourglass to her neck. “What do you think of what Mim did?”

He blinks. “Mim?”

“The Man in the Moon, darling.”

He wrinkles his nose at _darling_ and replies with a shrug. “Belief is strong here. Most humans likely won’t stop seeing us.”

“Would you stake your life on that?”

Her expression is oddly intense, though her voice as she asks the question is cool.

He tenses, and she seems perturbed. “Oh, I’m not here to collect you, dear. I’m asking if, hypothetically, you would stake your existence on the belief of humans.”

“Not if I wanted to live long,” he replies, and the Reaper appears mollified.

“Exactly! Why would one give up immortality and power for some ridiculous gamble like that?” she says, throwing her hands up in the air as if she’s proven some great point.

“I wouldn’t mind giving up my immortality _for_ power,” he muses, half to himself.

Death pauses. “I suppose that makes sense. There’s only so much one can do just with a long life.”

She pats his cheek. He startles, eyes widening, but doesn’t flinch.

The Reaper drops the hourglass into her palm and closes her fingers around it, then presses her fist into his open hand and releases her grip. He looks down at his hand and sees not an hourglass, but a paintbrush with a slim black handle.

“There,” she says, smirking. “Now you can tell everyone you’ve had a brush with Death.”

Before he can even process the bad joke, she’s gone.

Finally, he allows himself to tremble, wrapping his arms around himself. He leans back against the rotting tree, biting his lip until he tastes the tang of blood spreading over his teeth.

_What was that all about?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Irish mythology, púcaí are shapeshifters that can take the form of bulls, goats, birds, hares, and humans, though their most common form is that of a black horse with yellow eyes. Sound familiar?  
> Púcaí apparently tend to keep some animal features when they take the appearance of a human, such as ears or a tail. There's also another entirely unrelated Irish shapeshifting fairy that can turn from horse to human with horse ears, which is not confusing at all.


	10. Drip

The paint is dripping.

North frowns and catches some of the paint on a cloth. Bunny’s paint is good quality, but it’s meant for eggs, not toys- although the color is just as beautiful on wood as it is on shell.

“I like that red.”

He turns around to see Grim, leaning against the door.

“Knocking is good manners, you know,” he says, holding out the cloth just in time to catch another dribble of paint.

“Does Bunny know you stole that pot of paint?” she asks, striding over to the desk where North is working.

He holds a finger up to his lips. “Is our little secret, yes?”

“It looks good on the cloth,” she notes, tilting her head to better examine the shade. “I’m surprised that’s one of Bunny’s- he usually prefers softer colors.”

“Exactly! Is not his style. I am taking off his hands, doing favor!” he rationalizes.

Grim’s quirked lips tell him she remains unconvinced of his logic.

“I suppose you won’t mind if I go tell him where it went, then,” she drawls, gliding back to the door. She doesn’t bother opening it; instead, she vanishes in a cloud of black smoke.

North nearly knocks over toy and paint pot alike rushing to catch Grim. “ _Shostakovich!_ Come back!”


	11. Colorful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this one's a little darker, and the reason for the recent change to a "T" rating. Nothing too graphic, but if you can't stomach Edgar Allan Poe, maybe skip this one.

“They deserve to die,” he says.

He takes the form of a man more and more, nowadays. It’s easier to walk around on two legs in the towns. Sometimes he still forgets to hide the ears, but it’s never anything a well-placed hat can’t hide.

“Everyone dies, _mon lapin_ ,” Grim answers dryly.

He prefers talking to her in the towns. She always seems more distracted, easier to catch off-guard. The presence of so many people sets him a bit on edge as well, but he’s never shown weakness in the Reaper’s presence. He isn’t about to begin now.

“It’s unfair.”

“And who ever said I was fair? Neither is life, you know.”

“It isn’t _right._ ”

“I’m sure many of the townspeople would do the same in the prince’s place, given the opportunity,” she argues.

“But they won’t, because they don’t have the opportunity in the first place. You can’t tell me you approve of this!” he complains.

Grim’s expression is pensive. “There are a great many things I don’t approve of, dear. Not that anyone consults me on them.”

A man nearby coughs, and Grim glances over at him. “Oh dear. There goes another one. Can you blame the prince for wanting to avoid _this_?”

 _This,_ as indicated by the Reaper, is a fit of coughing followed by rust-colored sweat. _This_ is marked by numerous boils and sores. _This_ makes its mark with blood everywhere, leaking from every opening, every pore in the unfortunate man’s skin.

“No,” he admits as the man keels over. “But I _can_ blame him for holing up in that bloody abbey of his while his subjects are dying in the streets!”

“Honestly, the abbey is the least bloody place hereabouts for probably a hundred miles,” Grim remarks.

She sees his eyes glint harshly. The clouded sun stubbornly dispersing its light in the sky above turns his green gaze venomous.

“You could change that,” he suggests.

The suggestion hangs in the air, daring her to reach out and take it. She doesn’t, not immediately.

“Why should I?”

He answers quickly, too quickly. “Because you hate it when people cheat you, and the only thing you hate more is when they hide behind others to do it.”

 ** _He’s thought about this_** , she realizes. **_This púca has been contemplating how to persuade me into murder._**

**_Well, it would be a shame to have all his planning go to waste._ **

“I’ve heard that he’s planning a masquerade next week,” she proposes.

The púca grins. “Going to a party uninvited? Rude.”

“Well, you said it yourself: the prince and his cronies cheated me. He _has_ practically invited me, doing a thing like that. Anyway, when’s the last time we’ve been to a good party?”

He blanches. “We?”

“Yes, we. You expect a lady to go to a party unaccompanied?”

“What makes you think _I’ll_ escort you?!”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you really want to miss it.”

“I do! I really would rather miss this, thanks very much!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 _I’d really rather be missing this,_ he thinks.

They’re colorful. That’s the only thing he can say about the rooms that’s vaguely positive: everything else is very clearly negative. And even the colors are a potential point against it- they’re bright, but also gaudy, garish, and just plain old _ugly_ in some cases. The costumes are _all_ ugly. The dancing is only such in the barest sense of the word, there’s too much lighting in most areas and nigh none in the others, and the only reason he’s guzzling the wine is because his need for a drink is currently outweighing his good taste.

He blames the clock for the last part. He isn’t sure which room it’s in, but it chimes every hour far too bloody loudly for his liking. At least the revelers shut up for a bit when it does: if he had to listen to the clamor of voices, the screeching music, _and_ the clock banging on over all of it, he might go mad.

As if to accentuate this point, the musicians start up a particularly raucous song that’s as loud as it is tuneless.

He takes off his hat to cover his ears, because he is all out of bothers to give about anyone who recognizes his non-human status. Anyway, everyone who might notice presumably won’t be able to tell anybody else, not after tonight. If Grim would just. Show. Up. Already.

He flinches as someone grabs his tail, or where his tail would be if he wasn’t in possession of only two legs at the moment.

“Meet me in the purple room,” a voice slurs, and he wrinkles his nose at the stench of alcohol on her breath. He’s glad it isn’t Grim: hammered or not, he doesn’t want to break his façade of fearlessness in front of her.

“Aren’t we already in the purple room?” he points out, disentangling himself from a pair of wandering hands.

The woman giggles, and his rabbit ears flatten at the shrill irritation of the sound. “This is the _violet_ room, silly!”

“…Right,” he says, resisting the urge to ask _What’s the bloody difference?_ “Um, see you there, I guess.”

She laughs and weaves away, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Fancy not knowing the difference between purple and violet,” another, familiar voice teases.

A spark of indignation coupled with a heavy feeling of _finally!_ and a lighter-but-still-significant feeling of _about bloody time,_ he turns around to see the Grim Reaper.

She’s dressed entirely in red, which he would’ve thought gauche but for his current surroundings. Her costume is at least somewhat tasteful in construction: a scarlet gown with no frills, no ribbons, and only a slight train; a crimson cloak, with a hood that encircles her raven hair so as to enhance the vividness of her complexion; and a single piece of jewelry, a blood-colored gem hanging from a red ribbon around her neck.

“You look like you’ve been beheaded,” he comments.

She smirks. “Thank you, but you haven’t seen the real _pièce de résistance._ ”

Grim whips out her mask with a flourish. She puts it on, and any elegance the costume might have had is immediately ruined. He’s almost lost for words.

Almost. “That thing is ugly as sin.”

She removes the mask and waves her hand dismissively. “You’re too kind.”

“Yes, I am,” he mutters, raising a horribly overdecorated goblet to his lips and taking a gulp of wine that tastes far too cheap for such an expensive party. “What took you so long?”

She shrugs, twirling the mask carelessly in her hands. “I wanted to make a grand entrance.”

And make an entrance Grim had, for he could see the stares being drawn to her even as they spoke. She could, too: he notices her eyes flicker at the surrounding crowd before she looks back to him.

“Having fun?” she asks.

He takes another, longer draught of wine. “Like a hen in a fox den.”

“Or a rabbit?”

He rolls his eyes, and she cackles as she replaces her mask.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she says in a voice like velvet, “I’ve some business amidst all this pleasure.”

Grim begins to stride off, then pauses.

“The _real_ party’s starting in the blue room, if you’re interested,” she murmurs.

She vanishes, and he begins shouldering his way through the crowd, making his way to the blue room. In the purple room, he briefly notices the handsy woman from earlier and freezes, unsure if he’s in her line of sight.

The clock begins to chime, and everyone around him goes still. He takes the opportunity to slip through to the blue room.

The final chime rings through the air, and he sees Grim standing in the middle of the chamber, bathed in cerulean light. Her cloak hangs around her, the color as bright as a fresh cut.

The idiot prince is the first to approach her, and the second to get a clear view of her mask.

The mask is pale, and the face it’s in imitation of is so thin as to be skeletal. That in and of itself wouldn’t be so shocking, considering some of the more outlandish ensembles Grim finds herself among. But the pale face is daubed with rosy cheeks, and the forehead adorned with vermilion streaks.

He grins wide when he sees the prince’s expression.

_You though you could escape Death?_

The prince shrieks for this audacious stranger to be seized. No one complies. Grim begins walking away, and he glimpses the permanent grin of her mask.

_Is this the last thing people see before they die?_

The question comes back to him in force, and now he can answer it.

_For these people? Yes._

The crowd trails after Grim, none making a move to stop her, or even so much as touch her. The colors of the walls seem to change around them as they walk: blue, purple, green, orange, white, purple again.

The last room is black, but the windows are tinted vivid red. The only other feature of the room he takes notice of is the ebony clock standing against the wall.

_So that’s where the bloody thing is._

The stupid prince draws his dagger, and Grim glances over her shoulder, eyes burning. The prince drops dead.

The prince’s idiot cronies rush forward into the room, but he lingers behind.

There are shrieks of horror and pain. Then there is silence.

He doesn’t flinch when Grim appears next to him unannounced.

“Are you glad?” she inquires.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel sorry for any of them, not a whit, but the rush of satisfaction he feels is…lacking. Tempered by some realization that had leaked in while Grim had worked her trade.

“How do you keep doing this?”

She isn’t wearing her cloak or mask. It strikes him that she looks tired.

“Do I have another option?” the Reaper jokes, but her eyes are dull, with no spark of joy or amusement to light them.

He suddenly can’t stand to look in her eyes.

Her lips twitch. “This party’s pretty dead, yeah? Why don’t you go have a drink someplace decent. I’ve got a little cleaning up to do.”

He doesn’t vanish, exactly, but Grim is certain that if she’d blinked at the wrong time, she’d have missed him leaving.

All the rooms are black now, the colors drained away with the light. Death walks the empty chambers, far too aware of her own presence.

She realizes hers is not the only presence there.

“Pitch.”

He’s standing in one of the doorways, eyes somehow glinting gold despite no light remaining. “Grim.”

She smiles automatically, thinks better of it, and drops the façade. “Like what I’ve done with the place?” she scoffs.

The Boogeyman shrugs. “A decent renovation. Bit too much red for my taste.”

Her laugh is real, though not untinged with bitterness. “Would you prefer white, then? I’m sure there’s some wine left over.”

He shakes his head. “I was hoping to collect on some of that fear while it was running high. It seems I’m a little late to the party.”

She strides over to him, holds out her hand. “Why, not at all. I saved a dance for you.”

The Nightmare King smiles and grasps the Reaper’s fingers in his own. “Well then.”

In their new dominion, Death and Darkness dance.


	12. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, banter, fluff, and more angst.

The first thing he pictures when he thinks of Grim is her grin, wide and thin and pointed. The third thing that comes to mind is her hair, constantly spilling and shifting, sometimes floating wisplike in the air, sometimes flowing like wine pouring into a dark glass.

The second thing he always sees is her hands.

He’d sought her out, after that bloodstained debacle of a party. She wasn’t in her gown from earlier, but she _had_ still been dressed all in red- a suit, this time, with ruby-colored buttons on the jacket and vest. Even her shoes had been a brilliant scarlet, the shade only slightly muddied by the crust of blood and dirt lining her soles.

She’d been standing in the middle of some makeshift graveyard, crowded with mounds of dirt topped with large, rough stones. In her hands, she’d been twisting a green stem, its small white flower heads tapping against her pale fingers. He’d spotted a red stain on her wrist.

“I thought you didn’t bleed,” he’d said.

“I don’t,” she’d replied. “These are raspberries.”

She’d opened her palm to reveal the crushed remains of said berries, juice seeping into her skin. The stem fell to the ground, and she’d covered it with her heel as she took a step forward.

“It might surprise you to know that I can feel regret,” Grim had remarked, as casually as if they’d been discussing the weather.

Her eyes had been too bright, too intense. Instead he’d focused on her hands, long and nervous and thin, fiddling with the hem of her crimson vest.

“I’m sorry,” he’d muttered.

She’d scoffed. He can still picture the lines of her mouth, pressed tight and terse as her words. “Don’t pity me, dear. I know the consequences of my own actions.”

The Reaper wiped her hands on her jacket, leaving twin dark streaks running down her front. His gaze was drawn to the graceful flick of her wrists as she dismissed his next attempt to speak. “Don’t say it was your fault too. It was, but that hardly diminishes my own role, does it? Anyway, I get the impression neither of us are particularly sorry about those deaths last night.”

He frowned. “What’s there for you to regret, then?”

She’d laughed then, the sound as hollow as her eyes. “Staying after the party was over. Humans say there are fates worse than me, and I suspect a three-bottle hangover is one of them.”

There was another expression in her eyes, something that pierced into him. Something that said, _We both know I’m lying._ Something that begged, _Let me lie a little longer._

He whistled. “Three full bottles?”

“And a few not-full ones. It’s not as if the other guests were going to finish their drinks, so I finished for them.”

“Sounds like a cause for regret to me.”

Her next laugh had been weak, but genuine. He’d smiled, focusing on the expansive gesturing of her hands and not on the broken look lurking behind her eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Gloves or no gloves?”

Bunny had rolled his eyes and sighed. “Does it make a bloody difference?”

Grim had turned to the mirror, straightening her dress indecisively. “I want to look my best. Besides, we’ve hardly gotten to spend time together since you’ve become a Guardian- it won’t kill you to be in my presence a few more minutes, will it?”

“We’re going to miss the movie if you don’t hurry it up, Grimace. Pick and get a move on.”

She’d pulled off her gloves. “No gloves, then. I don’t want to accidentally claw you if I need to hold your hand, after all.”

“Uh-huh. I seriously doubt a movie about birds is going to be as scary as _Psycho._ ”

“Are you underestimating Mr. Hitchcock’s abilities, Pookie?”

He’d rolled his eyes again, making certain that Grim saw it that time. “Do y’have to call me Pookie? I’m not even sure if I’m a proper púca anymore.”

“If you can still call me Grimace, I can still call you Pookie. Now, are you really going to go out looking like _that_?”

Bunny glanced at his fuzzy arms and paws and shrugged. “I’m the Easter Bunny. This is how I look. Besides, I dunno if I can even shift anymore. Don’t really have a reason to, now. Only reason I ever tried looking human was for the opposable thumbs.”

Grim sighed. “I miss when you were a cute wittle fluffball.”

“’Wittle?’ Really? Put a ‘wittle’ effort into pronouncing your consonants, Grimace.”

She punched him in the arm. “You’re mean.”

“Mm. We heading out now?”

Grim hooked an arm through his, laying a thin white hand near his neck. “You’re paying for the popcorn.”

He smiled down at her as she squeezed his shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It’s a surprise to see her again. Ever since what Bunny’s mentally labeled as ‘The Incident,’ he hasn’t spotted hide or hair of her. It’s even more of a surprise to see her hanging around Jack Frost, of all people. They seem to be chatting amiably, so he doesn’t butt in.

Grim notices him. She doesn’t call him over until after Jack has flown off.

“Hey, Grimace,” he says. “Been a bit. Almost thirty years now, yeah?”

“Thirty-one,” she corrects him.

His eyes are drawn to the movement of her hands. She’s nervous, and so are the twitching fingers plucking at the collar of her robe.

“About that little…incident-” she begins.

He feels a knot tie itself in his stomach.

“Look, can we just not talk about-”

“It shouldn’t have happened,” she says, and the knot tightens.

“It’s not your fault, Grim.”

She laughs, brushing a stray wisp of hair out of her face. “Please, darling. Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you, I-”

“I made a mistake. Let me admit that much.”

He draws in a sharp breath. “And that’s all it was, a mistake. Now can we-”

Suddenly he’s flat on the ground, looking up at wild white eyes. He can feel fingers tightening around his neck. He reaches for his boomerang, but she kicks it out of reach.

Bunny scrabbles at her fingers, but before he can get a firm grip, he hears a voice.

“Hey!”

There’s a flash of crackling blue magic, and Grim darts off of Bunny in a puff of black smoke.

Jack lands where Grim had been standing and extends a hand to Bunny. Bunny takes it, gets up.

Jack’s eyes are blazing as he glares at Grim. “What the heck-”

“You see, Bunny?” the Reaper says. “You’re still-”

“Why were you-”

“Mistake or not-”

“Cottontail can be annoying sometimes, but-”

Grim manages to hear this last statement, despite talking over Frost’s furious questioning. “Cottontail? Oh, how sweet, Pookie, you two are friends!”

She claps her hands, genuinely delighted.

“Sometimes,” Bunny jokes, and Jack punches him in the shoulder.

Grim’s smile lingers, though it softens into something sadder.

“A fellow Guardian, too. Someone you can trust.”

Bunny sighs. “It was just a mistake, Grimace. You don’t have to have your knickers in a twist about it.”

“Were you frightened?”

He should say no. He knows he should, and then everything will be fine, and he won’t ever have to think about The Incident again. He opens his mouth. “N-”

_He sees her teeth first, small and sharp and far too close. Then her face, pale and thin and framed by raven hair, spilling around her like a rush of dark water._

_He can feel her fingers around his throat, squeezing, squeezing-_

She sees him hesitate. Her smile widens as she pulls her hood closer around her face, but he still catches the track of a tear on her cheek before she turns around.

“You can trust me, you know,” Grim tells him. “You might not believe it, but it’s true.”

 _Of course I know I can trust you,_ he thinks. _I’m not angry._

Before he can say so, she’s gone.

Jack exhales deeply, leaning on his staff. “What was _that_ all about?”

“Ah, just catching up with an old friend. She’s a bit of a larrikin, that one.”

His fellow Guardian raises an eyebrow. “Ok, then.”

Something else occurs to Jack, and he grins. “Wait, Grimace? _Pookie?_ You and the Reaper have pet names for each other?”

Bunny groans. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Nope. So, Pookie, what’s the story here?”

“Call me Pookie again and I’ll job you, ya nong.”

“Ok. So what’s the story here, Kangaroo?”

Bunny punches Jack in the arm and laughs, trying not to think of thin white hands clutching around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not drink three bottles of wine in one night. If you aren't dead afterwards, you'll probably wish you were.  
> Hopefully next chapter has less angst, but I make no promises.


	13. Shading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument is had, and a throat is cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a little note for myself as a placeholder for this chapter: "Less angst this time."  
> Good advice, me. Too bad I didn't follow it.

“I like your fake shadows,” Grim said.

The púca, sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, glanced up at her bemusedly. “My what?”

Self-conscious, she pointed at the piece of paper in his paws. “You know, those…things that look like shadows.”

He squinted at the charcoal sketch. “My shading?”

“That’s what it’s called then. Right.”

He laughed, not unkindly, and Grim crossed her arms with an exaggerated pout.

“Don’t mock, I’m trying to compliment your drawing!”

“The fake shadows look good then?”

“You’re terrible.”

“Ya know, my fake shadows have really improved. When I started out my fake shadows were a proper shemozzle.”

“I hate you.”

“But you don’t hate my fake shadows?”

She attempted to smother a giggle and failed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Ah, but I must be corrigible. How else would I have improved my fake shadows?”

Grim sat down next to the flat rock and leaned on the púca, her head just below his shoulder. “Meanie.”

He ruffled her hair. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grim hasn’t visited the Warren for decades, but when she enters it’s as if she’d been there yesterday. Everything is the same: the grass growing green and vibrant, with no heed for the weather outside; the flowers, clustered or peppered about, brightly colored and sweetly scented; the golems, moss growing all over their stone bodies. They stand and switch to their happy faces in order to greet her, and she smiles back.

“Hello, dears. Did you miss me?”

She finds Bunny sitting on the riverbank. Instead of a paintbrush and egg, he has a charcoal stick and a piece of paper. His eyes are thoughtful as he taps the stick against his chin, inadvertently giving himself a sooty goatee.

She makes sure to rustle the grass as she approaches, even though she’s fairly certain he was aware of her presence from the moment she stepped into the Warren.

“D’ya fancy my fake shadows?” he jokes.

“You _are_ incorrigible.”

He looks up from his sketch. The green of his eyes almost burns her.

“You haven’t visited in a while.”

“Why would you want me to?”

“Do you not want to?”

She licks her thumb and swipes his chin with it. Instead of losing the charcoal goatee, Bunny gains a soot sideburn. Grim is half-tempted to give him one on the other side for the sake of symmetry.

Instead, she tells him “You’ve some smudges on your face.”

He scrubs at his chin with the paw not holding the charcoal. “How about now?”

“Now you’ve smudges on your face _and_ your hand.”

Bunny smirks and boops her nose with said appendage. “Well, looks like I’m not the only one.”

“Menace.”

He laughs, setting aside his art supplies and rising from the bank. “You’ve missed me, haven’t you?”

“My heart aches every moment apart from you, darling. Did you miss me?”

“Like a thorn in my side. Want to go for a walk?”

They stroll around for a bit. Grim comments on some of the new flower arrangements, Bunny talks about the latest color combinations he’s tried, and for fifteen minutes Grim can almost pretend The Incident never happened.

But it did happen, and the memory digs at her, its sharp point burrowing deeper and deeper into her chest.

The pain must show in her eyes, because Bunny pauses in the middle of a monologue about use of the secondary color wheel and puts a paw on her shoulder. “What’s eating you?”

She chews her tongue. She’d like to just say “Nothing,” and keep pretending that they’ve been like this forever. They nearly have, really- years and years of joking and teasing and arguments that never really went anywhere, but that last part didn’t matter because it was less about making their point and more about trying to outwit the other.

It had only been thirty-one years since everything had changed, but it already felt like it’d been centuries.

“What happened-” she begins, and he knows what she’s talking about immediately. Of course he does.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

She clenches her hands into fists. “What is that supposed to mean? You’re acting like it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t. You didn’t mean to-”

“But I did. You shouldn’t have to be afraid of a friend hurting you, Pookie.”

He stands across from her, putting his other paw on her other shoulder. “I’m not saying I should, but accidents happen. Sometimes we just have to leave things in the past.”

“Exactly. You’re still clinging-”

Bunny releases her shoulders. “ _I’m_ still clinging? What about _you_? I’m ready to move past this, Grim. I have been for years. Why d’you keep saying-”

“This isn’t something we can just move past. We both know it.”

“No, we don’t! We don’t both know it, because I still haven’t a bloody idea why it bloody matters! You just disappeared-”

Grim scoffs. “Don’t tell me you wanted to see me after _that._ ”

“Yes! Yes, I did, because I wanted you to tell me what was wrong!”

“And I did tell you. You’re just not willing-”

“It doesn’t matter, Grimace. It was a mistake, an accident.”

“You’re just not willing face the fact that you’re scared of me.”

He draws himself up to his full height, glares down at her. “Shut it.”

She tenses, biting her cheek until she feels her teeth break skin. “Don’t pretend like it-”

“It _doesn’t_ matter, Grim. It’s never mattered. Why should you care if I’m scared of you? You’re the bloody Reaper! Everyone’s a little scared of you.”

“You act like it doesn’t matter, but it does. Do you think we can really be friends if you’re looking over your shoulder every time I’m behind you, wondering whether you’ll get a scythe in the back?”

“You’re exaggerating. You’d never-”

The blade slashes his throat, and he collapses to the ground.

Grim stands over him, watching scarlet spatter on the grass.

 _That would make a lovely color for your egg dye,_ she thinks, and nearly laughs even as vomit rises in her throat.

Bunny composes himself and stands, the gash in his neck already closing. Grim’s relieved to see it was a clean cut- she isn’t sure what she’d do if Bunny had been forced to explain the scar across his jugular to his fellow Guardians.

“Alright, so maybe you would. Does it make a difference?”

Even as he says it, she sees the tightness in his shoulders, the muscles in his legs tensing as he prepares for fight or flight.

She wipes the forming tears from her eyes and sees a charcoal streak lining her wrist.

“All the difference in the world.”

Grim leaves, and Bunny collapses onto the grass, finally allowing himself to tremble.

“Strewth. What the bloody blazes, Grimace?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bunny might seem a little too calm about his throat getting cut, but remember, he's a Guardian. Nothing can kill him except lack of belief. Guardians still try to avoid injury, though- immortality does not make you immune to pain.


	14. Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of death and blood in this one, my guys gals and pals. Be warned.

Mordice has always been in motion, even before she gained the consciousness she possesses to this day.

She doesn’t remember her time before she was a fairy, but she’s familiar enough with hummingbirds to know that they’re never still. They’re always hovering, darting, flitting from flower to flower, constantly searching for fuel to power their ever-fluttering wings. It’s not much of a leap to assume that she must’ve been so, when she was just a bird.

When Mordice was first given form as a fairy, she was never given opportunity to be still. Always training to fight, swinging her own blades while dodging others, and then flying into battle. After battle, she’d tend to the wounds of her girls and have her own hurts attended. Once they’d all healed enough, training would begin again, and the cycle repeated.

When she led the rebellion against their masters, there was never an option to be still, not if you wanted to live. Fight, fight for your freedom, then run and duck and hide so the masters wouldn’t catch you. Lick your wounds, count the troops remaining, sort those who needed rest from those ready to fight again, then fight. Over and over and over, breaking one cycle only to fall into another, until the day where the last of her girls lay dying on the battlefield and Mordice stood alone, about to fall back into the grasp of the masters she’d struggled to escape for so long.

The moon shone bright that night, and as she remained still for the first time in her long, long life, she heard the moon speak.

“I can save them,” he told her, “but there will be a price to pay.”

Mordice hadn’t known he intended to rescue her as well. In the moment, all she knew was that there might be one more chance, the ghost of an opportunity for her girls to escape.

“Anything. Anything to save them,” she said.

Her troops arose, shining in the moonlight. They shrank, their armor melting into their bodies, and for a moment she thought he’d transformed them back into nectar-drinking birds. But no- their eyes were the same. Not black like birds’ eyes, without awareness or conscience, but bright rings of color circling pupils, as they have been from the day they were given form as fairies.

Her troops flew away, and Mordice readied herself to be caught, to be beaten down and tortured until the day her masters revert her to an unquestioning soldier, or kill her. She hoped she could hold out until the latter option.

Then her troops gathered and swarmed the masters, and she nearly screamed.

 _No,_ she wanted to cry, _no, no, don’t fight, fly, fly away, escape while you can-_

The cloud of her troops collided with the forms of their masters.

She couldn’t bear to see them slaughtered again. She closed her eyes.

“No,” the moon said.

The moonlight bled through her eyelids.

“Look,” the Man in the Moon commanded.

Mordice wasn’t inclined to obey orders, not anymore. She covered her face with her hands.

“Please.”

Her masters had never said please.

She dropped her hands and opened her eyes.

The masters all lay dead or dying, their eyes pecked to bloody pulp, their skin marred with a thousand scratches like scrapes from a thorn bush. Her girls hovered proudly in front of her. Mordice examined them all, calling them forward to check for battle wounds, but not a single drop of the blood staining their feathers was their own.

Mordice looked up at the moon.

“What was the price?” she asked.

“Listen to my offer,” was his reply.

She listened.

Mordice had spent many years considering his offer before she took it.

Now few know her old name, and even fewer know what she was before she was a Guardian. Nowadays, even her girls don’t call her Mordice, but Tooth.

Tooth continues to stay in motion, as she always has.


	15. Pair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got permission from Whiteeyes on the Rise of the Guardians Amino to feature their OC Gabby in this chapter.

Grim met the girl when her parakeet died.

She’d seen the girl on a few occasions beforehand- mostly when visiting her brother as he made his nightly rounds- but there’d been no proper introduction until the day when Roy the parakeet lay dead on the floor of his cage.

The girl was crying at the time. Grim was used to crying. It happened a lot when a human lost their companions to her. What she wasn’t used to was the human in question looking up and gasping.

“Oh,” the girl said.

“Eloquent, aren’t you?”

Perhaps that hadn’t been the most gracious thing to say to a mortal in mourning, but to be fair, Grim had also been rather shocked.

The girl had scrubbed her eyes and straightened her pajamas, as if presentation made any difference when meeting the Reaper. Then she’d held out her hand. “I’m Gabby.”

Grim hadn’t taken the hand. “You know who I am?”

“I think so. You’re Sandy’s sister, right?”

Her surprise heightened. “Yes, but that’s not usually how people know me. …You know my brother?”

The girl blushed.

 _Ah,_ Grim realized.

“Sandy’s a friend,” the girl- Gabby- explained.

“Mmm. Nothing more?”

Gabby’s blush was a rather flattering color, really; a gentle flush of pink highlighting her cheeks and the tip of her nose that deepened into the warm shade of a blooming rose. “Well…um…”

“If you want children, I hope you don’t mind adopting. Natural birth hasn’t been an option for mixed couples since Before,” Grim told her.

Gabby went from bright pink to vivid scarlet. “What?!”

“By mixed, I mean between our kind and your kind. Although I’m speaking from a general stance on that- I can’t birth any young. As far as my brother’s virility, I wouldn’t know. He’s never had any children, so-”

Gabby lifted her hands. “Please stop!”

Grim acquiesced. “Anyway, I’m here for your bird.”

“Roy?”

“Is that his name? Then yes, I’m here for Roy.”

Gabby sniffled and wiped her nose. “You’re late. He’s already gone.”

“Dying and leaving this world are two entirely different things, my dear. My brother should’ve told you as such, if he told you anything about me.”

Grim waved her hand, and a soul, white and brilliant, arose from the little feathered body.

The girl gasped again, this time holding her hands to her mouth as if she thought her own soul might fly out.

“Is…is that…?” she stuttered.

“Roy? I believe so, unless I’m remembering his name wrongly.”

Gabby shook her head. Her brown eyes shone amber in the light of Roy’s soul. “He’s beautiful.”

Grim smiled. It was rare any human older than a child bore witness to the loveliness of a soul let loose from its shell- having a mortal bear witness to the beauty of their lost companion was a rarer treat still. “He is, isn’t he? He must have been well-loved, to have bloomed so.”

“Bloomed?”

“Souls aren’t always this brilliant, darling. They have to be nourished like any other living thing to make use of any potential.” Grim met the girl’s astonished gaze and smiled amiably. “Well done.”

Gabby smiled back. “I think he was pretty brilliant on his own.”

“I’m sure he was, but I suspect there was another soul enhancing that brilliance.”

Roy perched on Gabby’s shoulder, and she laughed, delighted.

Grim held out her hand, palm open. “Will you be coming along now, Roy?”

Roy nuzzled the girl’s tousled brown locks, and Grim withdrew her hand. “Seems this soul has a bit of lingering to do yet, dear. You won’t mind keeping an eye on him a while longer, I hope?”

Gabby’s mouth opened, forming a nearly perfect _o_. “You mean…?”

Grim nodded, and the girl laughed again, sweeping her companion up in a bundle of ethereal feathers. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The Reaper shrugged. “It isn’t me you should be thanking. I can’t take anyone who isn’t ready to go, darling.”

Gabby kissed the tip of the bird’s beak. “Thank you, Roy.”

As Grim exited through the window, she called, “I’ll be sure to give my brother your love!”

She caught one last glimpse of the girl’s blush before vanishing into the night.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(What do you think?) Sandy asks, handing Grim a scrap of paper.

She reads the golden scrawl with the ease of anyone who’s had centuries to become accustomed to a certain handwriting.

_She spoke in silence, though she loved words_

_Whole worlds I’d see within her eyes_

_Colors brightened in her presence_

_And grayed with our goodbyes_

_She asked me, “Can I keep you?”_

_My answer will always be so:_

_“I’ll forever be well and truly kept_

_No matter wherever you go.”_

“I quite like it, but I’m certain she’d love it,” Grim replies.

Sandy nods, looking down at the name inscribed on the gravestone below.

_Gabby Colette Colorato_

Grim glances up at the sky and sees a soul, brilliant and bright, soaring down to perch on Gabby’s resting place.

“You’re late,” she notes.

Roy gently touches his beak to the gravestone.

Grim holds out her hand again.

“Come along now, dear.”


	16. Bugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch and Grim discuss different words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst free! Except for maybe like one sentence, blink and you'll miss it

Grim watched Pitch, her gaze unwavering. It was a common enough occurrence at that point that he didn’t acknowledge it, but there were still centuries yet before the Boogeyman’s irritation at this would be dulled by familiarity.

“What are you looking at?” he’d asked before, and she’d tilted her head as if she were one of those ridiculous mutts that often accompanied her.

“There’s a word for it,” was all she’d said.

“For what?” he’d snapped, half-tempted to vanish into the shadows just to avoid her.

“How you move. There’s a word for it.”

That had caught his attention. “How I move?”

She’d nodded and showed him her hands.

“Bats flap,” she’d explained, demonstrating the motion as she did so. “Flies zip. Moths flutter. Spiders skitter. Centipedes crawl.”

This last example was made in conjunction with Grim using her fingers to “crawl” up Pitch’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to swat the offending hand, shrugging it off as he would any other pest.

“I _walk_ ,” had been his reply.

She’d shaken her head. “Humans walk. Brother floats. I fly. You don’t do any of those.”

He’d wrinkled his nose. “Not all of us have wings, sweetheart.”

She’d frowned. “There is a word for it.”

“Stalk?” he’d suggested, stalking off and vanishing into the shadows.

Before he’d fully escaped, Pitch had heard her reply.

“No, that’s not it.”

Now they were back in the cavern, albeit in a different section than the one they’d first discussed description of the Nightmare King’s movement.

“A lot of insects skitter,” she remarked abruptly. “Ants, beetles, scorpions-”

“Scorpions aren’t insects.”

“No? Aren’t they in the same family as spiders?”

“Spiders aren’t insects either.”

She gasped dramatically. “Goodness! All these years, I’ve believed in lies!”

Grim leaned back exaggeratedly, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead, and used her momentum to tumble directly on top of Pitch.

With several decades of dealing with her shenanigans under his metaphorical belt, Pitch did not attempt to throw her into the nearest chasm again. Instead, he unceremoniously shoved her off of his lap and rose to his feet, dusting off his robes.

Grim glared up at him, evidently annoyed his reaction wasn’t as amusing this time around. “How does the Boogeyman know so much about insects anyway?”

“I deal in fear, pet. Quite a few humans have an absurd degree of such towards arachnids, which is what spiders actually are.”

Her eyes widened and she sat upright, crossing her legs like a child ready to hear a story. “People are scared of them? Why?”

“Silly mortal reasons. It’s such a common fear that they even have a name for it- arachnophobia.” He smirked. “A ridiculous fear, but it’s such a lovely word. _Arachnophobia_ ,” he repeated, relishing the feel of the syllables in his mouth.

“Arachnophobia,” Grim parroted, and smiled. “It is rather fun to say. Are there any other words like it?”

“Oh, certainly. Entomophobia, apiphobia, myrmecophobia, lepidopterophobia-”

“Why do they all end in _phobia_?”

He grinned. “It’s an old word. Means ‘fear.’”

Grim cackled. “No wonder you’re so fond of all those.”

“Those are just the ones referring to bugs, love.”

“There’s more?!”

“Mm. There’s one for everything.”

“Surely humans can’t be afraid of _everything_.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Wind?”

“Anemophobia.”

“Clouds?”

“Nephophobia.”

“Rain? Surely there can’t be a fear of _rain._ And don’t say aquaphobia again.”

“I won’t need to. Ombrophobia.”

Grim scoffed. “Really? _Really_? Is there nothing humans can’t name a fear of?”

Pitch shrugged. “I told you, darling: one for everything. Although according to you, apparently humans don’t have a word for the way I walk.”

“What? Yes they do, I just can never think of it when you’re around. It’s something with a _k_ sound, I know.”

“Mm. How would you describe your own movement, nowadays? You’re not exactly flying around anymore.”

Grim’s face twisted up as she prepared to deliver some ugly retort, then loosened. “The same.”

“What?”

“We move- after I lost my wings, I had to depend more on my legs. Before, I’d never bothered with my legs for any great amount of time. My movement was clumsy. I didn’t want to bumble around like some waddling duck, so I began imitating you. We move the same.”

She took a few experimental steps.

“I know it. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Pitch’s expression was oddly startled. “You learned to walk from me?”

“You give yourself too much credit, hobgoblin. I’ve always known how to walk. You taught me how to move.”

Pitch wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me that. I’ve nothing in common with those crass little gremlins.”

“The French disagree.”

“The French drink wine with breakfast. Their judgement in these matters is clearly impaired.”

“What does wine with breakfast have to do with hobgoblins? I’ve had a nice rosé with my morning omelet before. I can say, quite impartially, the only difference between you and a hobgoblin is that you’re not nearly as much fun at parties.”

The Nightmare King opted not to dignify that with a response. It certainly wasn’t because the Reaper had made a valid point in any way. Of course not.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Why me?” Pitch asked.

Grim looked up from her book. “Why you what?”

“Why learn to walk from me? Surely you’d have had an easier time of learning from an acquaintance with less objection to being stalked.”

She glanced back down at her reading before huffing in irritation and closing the book altogether. “Lost my place. Anyway, my brother doesn’t care to walk often, and when he does it’s on legs nigh too short to see. I was hardly going to prowl around on all fours like my children, and I assure you that my other human-seeming companions would have had far more of an objection to being stalked than you. Now, any other questions before I restart my book?”

Pitch squinted over at said book. “Why didn’t you just use a bookmark?”

Grim frowned. “A what?”

He blinked, then snorted. “You don’t know what a bookmark is.”

“Why would I mark my book? I’m not about to bend the pages like some _other_ people do, you heathen.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so fussed about bending the corners, but I can assure you that a bookmark leaves no actual mark on your book. Observe.”

From some hidden pocket of his robe, he drew a long black feather, snatching up the book and inserting the feather between two pages before offering it back to the Reaper.

She took it, plucking the feather from its place among the pages and twirling it in her fingers. “Why were you carrying this around?” Grim met his gaze and smirked. “Did it remind you of me?”

Pitch rolled his eyes. “Why should it?”

Grim opened her mouth, then closed it, her expression blank. Pitch caught the glint of a tear in her eye as she turned away, opening the book to a random page.

 _It did,_ he admitted silently. _It did._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“G’day, Grim. What’re you slinking about here for?”

Grim’s face snapped around on her neck, her eyes wide as she looked up at Bunny. “What did you say?”

Bunny frowned. “I just asked why you’re here, sheila. Don’t have to get your knickers in a twist about it.”

“No no no, not that, the other thing. The thing you said I did?”

Clearly bemused, Bunny thought over his greeting. “‘Slinking…?’”

She whooped. “That’s it! That’s the word!”

A heartbeat later, Bunny was left standing alone with a kiss from the Reaper on his lips and a confused expression.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You slink!”

Pitch didn’t bother to look up from his book for Grim’s dramatic appearance or grand declaration. “Hm?”

“The word! The word for how we move, it’s slinking! You slink around!”

“Ah, you remembered. How nice for you.”

Grim sighed and draped herself over the side of the Boogeyman. “Are you really ignoring this grand epiphany because of-” She checked the chapter title. “- _The Pit and the Pendulum_?”

“My deepest apologies. Perhaps _The Shadow over Innsmouth_ could have excused my disinterest.”

Grim slid down so that her head was cradled in his arm. “I’ve never cared for Lovecraft.”

“You believe Poe superior?”

“Oh no, it’s not that. I respect Mr. Lovecraft’s particular horror aesthetic, but he makes such a fuss about color of the skin and bloodlines. It always put me off.”

Pitch turned a page. “He lived in fear of that which he could not understand. Which might’ve been excusable in other circumstances, but in his case included anyone poor, anyone from another country, and basic math.”

“Non-Euclidian geometry isn’t exactly basic math, dear.”

“The man feared the non-visible spectrum of light, darling. My point still stands.”

“What would that be, heliophobia?”

“In this case it might be closer to radiophobia.”

Grim removed her head from his arm and snuggled up against his shoulder. “Did he have arachnophobia, too?” she inquired, grinning.

Pitch made eye contact briefly, smirking back. “Unfortunately I’d never the opportunity to find out.”

In some distant corner of the cavern, a spider watched the Reaper and the Boogeyman sit together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H.P. Lovecraft was super racist and classist btw


	17. Famous Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grim invites Jack over to her place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey oh boy it's angst ahoy

If you asked Jack Frost what color he associated most with Death, his answer would likely be ‘black.’ Most classical depictions of the Reaper had her dressed in flowing black robes, and the grims (lowercase g, the difference between Grim and grim still confused him sometimes) were dogs with pure black fur. With this basis, he’d assumed Grim would gravitate towards the monochrome in general.

So when Grim invited him over to her apartment, Jack hadn’t been expecting _this._

 _This_ happened to be a studio flat with brightly painted walls and mint green carpeting, a huge window decorated with various potted plants, yellow beanbags dotting the corners, and a crimson sofa holding court in the middle of the room. Even the refrigerator was pastel pink. Seriously, where did the Grim Reaper get a pink refrigerator?

Grim strolls over to said fridge and pulled out a juice box. “Would you like something to drink? There’s water, of course, but also milk, lemonade, and juice. Go on, take a seat, a bit of frost won’t hurt the furniture.”

Jack sinks into a beanbag, still examining his surroundings with disbelief. “Uh, juice please?”

“There’s apple, grape, or punch.”

“Punch please,” he says distractedly, staring at the wall directly to his left.

Grim walks over to him and sits with crossed legs, punching him playfully in the arm before handing him his juice box. “Admiring my work?”

Jack nods. It is nice work- portraits of faces all captured at different angles, flowers in budding, blooming, or wilting form, birds in flight and stick-legged deer running through stippled forests. “Where’d you get all the paint?”

Grim laughs and sips her juice. “I didn’t need paint, dear. I collect colors.”

 _No kidding,_ Jack thinks, giving the garishly colored room another once-over. “Collect colors?”

By way of answer, Grim draws the hourglass pendant from her robe. She flips it upside down, and Jack sees colors flash in the glass, brilliant and fleeting.

“Time steals colors away, changes them. It doesn’t use them for anything, though, so I take them for my own use. It’d be a shame to have all of them go to waste, yes?”

She gestures toward one of the portraits on the wall. Jack glimpses a face-

His face. It’s his face, eyes barely open, hair mottled white and brown.

“I used colors from your memories to get the shade right,” she says, and he stares at her.

“My memories?”

“Yes. Didn’t you ever wonder where your memories went when you lost them? The dead can’t take memory with them, so I hold onto it when they leave it behind.”

Jack keeps staring, face blank. “I’m not dead.”

“Well, no, not now. When you were human, though, technically you should’ve frozen to death.”

“You took my memories.”

His voice is quiet. Grim regards him, her expression regretful.

“Yes. I did.”

She’s prepared for him to glare at her, to rage and shout and start a blizzard in the room.

She’s not prepared for him to look back up at her with the same blank expression, eyes wet.

“Why didn’t you give them back?” he asks.

She stays silent.

“For so long, I wondered- I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand why I was alone and why I didn’t know anything. You could’ve told me.”

She could’ve borne his scorn and his accusation. Grim was fully prepared to take the brunt of his rage.

But there is no accusation in his voice. It’s a simple statement- _you could’ve told me_ \- almost matter of fact, the way he says it.

The tears in his eyes bead, freeze as they touch his cheeks, and Grim feels her heart crack like glass.

“I would’ve, if I’d have known it would hurt you this much,” she tells him.

His expression shifts to confused, and realization hits her like a blast of cold wind through an open door.

**_It’s because I’m a stranger to him._ **

Had she been a friend, or even someone he trusted, like Mim, Jack likely would’ve shouted and raged and made a snowstorm to rival that of ’68. Had she been anyone in his life that mattered to him, even marginally, he would’ve felt betrayed that she’d kept that information from him.

But to Jack, Grim is a nonentity. She’s someone who saw him before, once, long ago, and why would a person like that care for him so? A stab in the back is only a surprise if it’s from someone you care about.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and he shrugs, wiping his tears.

His indifference hurts almost as much as shards of her heart piercing into her lungs.

“It’s fine,” he says, and she wants to scream.

**_No, it’s not fine. It’s not._ **

She looks at the wall.

“That one’s my favorite,” she blurts abruptly. “The one with you.”

He smiles, doubtless bemused by this odd declaration. “I mean, with a face like that, how could it _not_ be?”

Grim laughs and wonders if any of her talks with Jack will ever end with her heart not crushed into bits as fine as sand.


	18. Self Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch denies that he is not immune to friendship.

Pitch does not love.

He certainly has never been _in_ love, but as far as warm feeling for his fellow spirit, there is a distinct lack of such in his heart colored the same as his name.

So when Grim shows him a picture she’s painted of him, he supposes another soul might have been touched at the gesture. Not so him.

“It’s fairly accurate,” he says.

“It’s entirely accurate. I used memories of shadows and silver to get the shade exactly right.”

“Mm. Any particular reason you used me as a subject?”

She rolls her eyes. “Because we’re friends.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, I consider you _my_ friend, although the feeling’s likely not mutual,” she admits.

He regards the picture again.

“A good enough likeness.”

“‘Good enough?’ Good enough for what?”

He shrugs, and she scoffs.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The amorini seem to enjoy attempting to ambush him.

Cupid’s attendants ordinarily ply their trade on any mortals unfortunate to be in their path at the moment, but when the Nightmare King enters the scene, all attentions immediately turn to him as the blasted cherubs make a collective agreement to use him for target practice.

He ignores them, as much as he’s able, dodging gold-tipped arrows and casting glares behind him. Fortunately, they’ve caught him in a forest- the clusters of trees offer him some cover from the sporadic yet fixated assault.

“You might have a little more luck with the leads, boys,” he calls out.

As way of answer, yet another golden arrowhead flies towards him, burying itself in the trunk of a nearby tree.

Pitch wrinkles his nose and turns to make his way out of the wood.

He notes that there’s a small mound of freshly turned dirt nearby- a crude grave, likely for some family’s recently deceased pet.

“It’s a cat, if you were curious.”

The Boogeyman looks up to answer her, and-

_swish_

-he hears the arrow let fly just before it hits its target.

Grim sees his eyes widen, though thankfully she doesn’t seem to catch a glimpse of the arrow before it disappears.

“What is it?”

He shakes his head, as if he’s one of her mutts trying to rid itself of water.

“It’s nothing. Some pest biting me.”

She grins. “The love bug, perchance?” she jokes, fluttering her nonexistent eyelashes outrageously.

He snorts. “When hell freezes over, perhaps.”

She laughs, and doesn’t see him shoot a scowl back toward the wood.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The thing about the amorini’s arrows is that they can only compound on what they are given. Pitch has no warm fuzzy feelings to conflagrate into some great flaming passion. Instead, the arrow he was struck with leaves little more than a faint warmth in its wake. Currently, he feels rather affectionate toward Grim, or affectionate by his standards. He has no desire to show it in any fashion, so his relatively warm regard of his not-friend does not affect their relationship in any way. The effects of the amorini’s arrows are temporary unless there’s a basis for them to work off of, and due to his sudden affliction of sympathy towards the Reaper he does not wish to hurt her feelings by being her friend when he knows it won’t last.

He finds a feather, long and black, lying on the ground. A raven’s, or perhaps a crow’s.

 _It’s rather like one of hers,_ he observes.

Pitch knows it’s ridiculous. Grim hasn’t had wings for eons now, and when the effects of the arrows wear off he’ll probably find the feather in his pocket and toss it aside.

But he picks the feather up anyway, hides in his robe next to his heart.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_It should’ve worn off by now._

The thought keeps coming back to him. He’d been shot years ago, but the warmth from the arrows stubbornly lingers. His affliction has turned to an infection.

It doesn’t affect him, for the most part. He wages his war against the Guardians. He distracts them, lures them all to the North Pole, steals the teeth while they’re fussing over whether he constitutes a real threat (ha!), gloats at their devastation. They rally, and they battle, and Pitch murders Sandman without a second thought. There’s a burst of rage from the boy, the supposed neutral party, and Pitch looks up at the sky and cackles in amusement.

It’s only later that night when the thought comes to him, preceded by:

_Grim will mourn her brother’s passing._

_Why should I care?_ he thinks. _Why should I care?_

He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t, but the warmth in his heart has condensed and hardened to a burning coal, charring his insides with the ridiculous worry that _she’ll be sad, she’ll miss him, she’ll blame me, she’ll hate me_

 _I don’t care,_ he tells himself, pulling out the feather from his pocket. _I don’t care._

But the feather stubbornly refuses to slip from his fingers, and in the end he places it back next to his heart.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pitch gives her the feather.

“Why were you carrying this around?” she asks. “Did it remind you of me?”

_Yes_

“Why should it?”

Her expression is hurt, as she turns away, and the warmth in his heart scorches him, scalding his insides with what feels awfully similar to guilt.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pitch isn’t entirely sure what happens between Grim and the overgrown rabbit. As far as he’s aware, they’ve had some sort of falling out, and now Grim is avoiding the lagomorph.

He isn’t terribly concerned about the state of her outside friendships, but against his will he _does_ care about Grim’s emotional wellbeing, and he goes to check on her. She’d had several different hideouts and lairs over the years, and is subject to jump from one to another without giving notice, so he isn’t terribly shocked when he shows up at her latest address and it’s abandoned.

He knows it’s the correct address- the walls are covered in paintings, all in her style. One in particular catches his eye. It’s partially hidden by a screen shoved in front of the wall, but he glimpses the distinctive shade of blood-red, a wisp of shadow-black hair, and so he shoves the screen aside.

It’s a self-portrait, larger than un-life, Grim dressed in a scarlet gown and crimson cloak. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, save for the large gash running across the painted face.

The mark is made by her scythe. A self-inflicted injury of sorts, he thinks, and nearly laughs aloud at the thought. Then he feels guilty for wanting to laugh.

Pitch replaces the screen, and when he does find Grim’s latest address, he makes no mention of the scarred portrait.


	19. Jewelry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grim has always worn her chains, though in different ways.

Grim has no mother. She has a brother, but they share no blood. They have no blood to share in the first place.

Her brother was woven like the dreams he creates, out of quiet nighttime slumbers and sweet imaginings. Or so she supposes- she wasn’t there to see, but she can’t picture him being born as she was, from last gasps and the fading shine of eyes. He certainly couldn’t have been born in chains.

For Grim was born in chains, an endless web of them, entangling her, strangling her, choking out her breath until the darkness overtook her. But she had no life to lose, not as humans did, and so she would wake again and again until her struggling tightened the chains around her neck.

She doesn’t know how long she hung there, ensnared like a fly awaiting a spider to suck it dry. She doesn’t know when she first saw moonlight, though she knows she must have spent many years there alone in the dark. Surely, it must have taken years for the rocky womb around her to crumble away in order for the moon could peer through.

The moon peeked through, and she heard him speak.

“Don’t struggle. Wait.”

Grim still doesn’t quite understand what made her listen to him. Perhaps it was because his was the first voice she’d ever heard. Whatever the reason, she did listen, and quit struggling, and waited.

The chains were not thick- they were slim as they were strong, and although they were dull they pressed against her skin so tightly that they cut through. They left no marks, and she lost no blood. There was no blood to lose.

The chains loosened the longer she remained still, until the day they loosened enough for her to slip from them. That was the day she learned that the things on her back, strange, unwieldy masses of bone and feathers, were good for something other than getting caught in the endless chains. She spread her wings, pushed with them, and suddenly she was in the air.

She fell, spreading her wings again, and somehow managed to land without breaking her neck.

Grim looked up at the moon through a net of obsidian chains. She would have expressed gratitude, but her mouth had not yet known speech, and so she remained silent.

She lingered in the cavern for weeks afterward, learning how to flap her wings and stay in the air unsupported by chains. She tugged at the chains that had kept her, pulled at them until they fell away from the earthen walls around them, looped them around her hand, relishing in the fact that she could free herself from them whenever she so wished.

She kept them with her, tucked under her robes, when she left the cavern.

Flying, crawling, eating, drinking: these were all things Grim had to learn, mostly by way of imitation. What she did not need to learn was reaping. It was automatic, an instinct driving her to hunt down souls on the verge of escaping their shells, to usher them though to whatever awaited them. She didn’t know what happened to them after they left the earth: she never caught so much as a glimpse though the veil that separated her realm, the living realm, and the next.

It struck her as ironic, now, that the realm of the dead should be one she was destined never to see.

Sometimes the souls would struggle, try to flee. In later years, Grim would occasionally find cause to let them go, but back in the beginning, she would snare them with the chains that had once ensnared her, drag them through to the next world kicking and screaming or resigned and silent. The chains were endless, therefore her reach was also.

Grim remembers first seeing an hourglass. Two glass bulbs, one on top of the other, connected in the middle. She remembers watching sand trickle though from the top to the bottom, then flipping it over and studying the cycle as it repeated.

She remembers grasping a loop of the chains in her hand, feeling the metal under her fingers heat, and opening her palm. An imitation hourglass sat there, the sand in it black as the chains she’d formed it from.

She’d hung it on a length of the chain, looped it around her neck.

The years went by in a relentless march. There were always more souls to reap, more strugglers, more stragglers, more fools who thought they could escape her if they were just clever enough.

Grim distracted herself making little charms, pendants similar to the hourglass. Copies of withered autumn leaves, fragile dead branches. She especially enjoyed crafting feathers, black as midnight, black as the ones sprouting from her back.

She grew comfortable, confident. Careless.

The person who outwit her didn’t even believe that she existed. They thought her a fraud, or some deluded maniac running about, murdering people.

It wouldn’t have been an issue to deal with them under most circumstances, but she failed to account for the chains.

For this person was clever, this nonbeliever. They took her chains, enwrapped her in them, trapped her in them as she’d been so long ago. Then, when she was half-strangled and unable to move, they brought out a blade.

“Those can’t be real,” they’d said, touching the knife to her wings. “If they are, they’re unnatural. You’re unnatural.”

She would’ve retorted, something along the lines of “I’m as natural as life itself, my dear,” but she hadn’t the air to push out her lungs, hadn’t the ability to move her throat without it being slit by slim, strong metal.

Afterwards, Grim wasn’t able to use the chains for a long time. She did take them up again, eventually, even continued making charms. Brushes and pens, rings and tiny flowers, all cast in obsidian black.

Not feathers, though. Never feathers.

When she saw Pitch after losing her wings, she expected him to be indifferent, or to mock. She expected him to at least be curious as to the events leading to her sudden loss.

Instead, he walked over to her, his golden eyes burning into hers. He gestured for her to turn, and she did. She felt his gaze rake over her back.

Between her shoulders two stumps of bone and frayed tendon were set, black not-blood spilling from where marrow should’ve been.

He reached out, touched them, and she shuddered. She waited for him to ask what happened.

“Who did this to you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, failing not to focus on the burning pain. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Who did this?”

“They’re dead,” she added, and Pitch fell silent.

“Pull them out.”

She waited for him to ask why she’d make such a request, to ask if she’s certain of her decision.

She felt his fingers grasp what was left of her wings, and _yank_.

Her screams were the only sound in the caverns for a long time.

Afterwards, they sat together. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and he asked her a question.

“How did they die?”

She smiled bittersweetly, thinking of her brother. “Coma.”

Grim heard Pitch make a noise of disgust. “They expired in their sleep? Pathetic. Surely _you_ would have made them to suffer, yes?”

“If I’d wanted to make them suffer, they wouldn’t have died in their sleep.”

She wrapped her arms around his arm, pressing her cheek to his shoulder as she lets her eyes drift shut.

The Nightmare King looked down at the Reaper, her eyes shifting behind her eyelids in restless sleep. He shifted so that he bore more of her weight, mindful of the fresh wounds on her back.

“I would have made them to suffer,” he whispered.

The hourglass pendant slipped from the neck of her robe and settled in the hollow of her collarbones. Pitch’s eye caught the movement. He plucked the trinket up, examined it, rolling it between his fingertips as he watched golden sand trickle through from top to bottom.

 _Dreamsand_ , he realized. Undoubtedly a gift from her dear brother.

The Boogeyman looked down at Grim’s face, her expression tight with pain.

The hourglass shattered easily under his grasp. He shook the sand off, watching it settle onto her eyelids.

Her expression softened, and she sighed, snuggling closer.

He frowned. He’d hoped giving her a more peaceful rest would open opportunity for him to escape. As it was, he leaned back and prepared to wait for a chance to slip away.

Hours later, a black dog made its way down into the cavern, seeking his mistress. He found her next to the shadow man, both of them sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole crafting thing was mostly added for anyone who wants to know how Grim turned an hourglass into a paintbrush back in Chapter 9. Only took me 10 chapters to get around to explaining, ha.


	20. Galaxy

Jack enjoyed stargazing.

Over three hundred years, Jack Frost had memorized the name and location of every constellation, including a few he’d made up. He’d kept relatively up to date on all the latest space discoveries, and had always of the firm opinion that Pluto _was_ a planet, regardless of its “classification.” He even had a stargazing spot- a cliff several miles outside of Burgess. It was an isolated place, undisturbed by either hikers or stray animals.

So when he flew up there to find the Grim Reaper staring up at the night sky, Jack was simultaneously startled and annoyed.

Grim was stretched out on the frosted grass, hands behind her head as she studied the stars. Her eyes flickered over to him when he landed next to her, but otherwise she remained still.

“Hey,” he said.

She didn’t reply.

“Um…not to be rude, but this is kind of my spot,” Jack remarked, somewhat petulant.

Grim turned her head, smirking. “If it’s kind of your spot, could it be kind of my spot as well?”

Jack sighed. “I’d really like to be alone here.”

Grim shrugged, sitting up. “Far be it for me to stay where I’m not wanted.”

“It’s not you, if that makes you feel better,” Jack offered. “I just do this kind of thing alone.”

“Oh, I understand, darling. Pray forgive my intrusion,” she replied, standing and smoothing her skirts. “Should you be in want of some company that isn’t the Guardians, feel free to intrude on my apartment whenever you like.”

Jack squinted. “You have an apartment?”

“Mm. Not everyone can have a palace or warren, as you well know. You seem a bit much of a free spirit to tie yourself down to a base of operations, but if you need a place to lay your head, I have a sleeping bag and spare blankets in the closet. Then again, perhaps you’d have more need of my electric fan than my fleeces.”

Jack stuck his hands in his pocket. “Eh, I’m fine with heat. It’s not like it makes me melt or anything. I mean, I’m not fireproof, but neither are the other Guardians.”

Grim plucked some stray blades of grass off her robes and twirled them in her fingers thoughtfully. “Very few people are fireproof, darling. Even those like us.”

The grass in her hand burst into flame.

Jack jumped back, startled at the sudden flash of fire. “Whoa!”

Grim cackled, tossing aside the still-flaming grass. “Fun party trick, isn’t it?”

The Guardian of Fun examined where the grass had landed critically. “Your hair’s on fire.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, love. It’s not as if it can kill me.”

Jack waved the end of his staff over the flames. The light coat of frost melted in a cloud of steam as the fire went out.

“You take getting set on fire way too lightly,” he commented.

“Is that so? Perhaps you’re just taking it too seriously.”

Jack grinned. “Maybe. I’d rather not be on fire, though. Personal preference.”

Grim’s gaze followed the cloud of steam as it dissipated. Her expression turned thoughtful.

“Have you ever put ice on a wound?” she inquired.

Jack traced circles on the ground, creating frozen puddles. “Yeah. Got my fair share of bumps and bruises when I was first learning how to fly, so having ice powers came in handy.”

Grim smiled sympathetically. “I wouldn’t have minded having such abilities when I was still figuring out flying.”

He blinked. “Say what now?”

She turned, sweeping her hair over her shoulders, and Jack saw her robes part to reveal her back. There lay two scars, long shallow grooves carved in between the sharp blades of her shoulders, gray against the white of the rest of her skin.

“I don’t have wings anymore, but I did,” she explained.

Jack took a step back, then forward, then forward again. “What-?”

“It was a human,” she said, her words suddenly rushed, as if she were afraid they would choke her if she didn’t spit them out fast enough. “None of our kind could have clipped my wings forever. Only mortals are capable of changing us in this way permanently.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “I’m human.”

Her laugh wasn’t bitter, but it was close to being so. “Not anymore, darling.”

He stared at the hollow spaces where once wings had been set.

“Why are you showing me this?”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes downcast. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you ice a lady’s old wounds? Lying on my back is murder, but I can hardly see the stars with my face in the grass.”

Jack reached up, fingers hovering over her spine.

Her skin was cold. Jack was used to the cold, desensitized to it, but her skin _burned_ with it. He was startled by it, enough so that he jerked his hand back as if from a hot stove, but his frost had already formed, was already spreading over her skin so that there was an icy film over her scars.

She let her hair spill back over her shoulders, hiding the scars.

“Thank you, dear.”

Jack opened his mouth, and she vanished, leaving him with words stillborn on his tongue.


	21. Triangles

Grim knows her brother is beautiful.

It isn’t a bias on her part: it’s an objective fact, that her brother is a wonder. He is kind and soft and warm and golden, all the potential that humanity has for good personified. He is ambition, but not set in the unforgiving shape of goals. He is imagination, but not bogged down by anxieties or fears. Sandy is beautiful.

Pitch is beautiful as well, although he is as different from her brother as obsidian is from gold. His ambition is cold and bitter and sharp, the sort of sharp like a scalpel you don’t notice cutting into you until you’ve bled out. He can be charming; after all, he’s had centuries to perfect his mask of civility.

But just a few nicks to his ego, a couple bumps and bruises to his pride, and the mask cracks.

What’s underneath is cruel and harsh and raw and monstrous, but it is beautiful as well. There’s an allure in danger, and what is underneath is dangerous.

Grim is dangerous too, but she holds none of the seductive mystery that her fellow dark spirit possesses. She is sharp, yes, sharp and jagged, a broken knife, a rough-edged saw. If her brother is gold and Pitch obsidian, she is lead. Plain, dull, ever-present, kept away from whenever possible. Grim is not beautiful.

In appearance, Grim isn’t certain whether her brother or her friend qualify as traditionally beautiful. Her brother is round and friendly, with a wide smile and kind eyes: the look of a person you can trust, regardless of your standards of beauty. Pitch is lean, predatory, crooked-toothed and ragged-nailed, long and flowing, as if he were made to fit his robes instead of the other way around. Unnerving to the eye, but perhaps not entirely unpleasant.

Grim is lean also, and predatory, arguably more so than her companion. Her teeth are small and pointed, triangles in a trim line, each identical to the next, all perfectly even. Unnaturally even. Shark’s teeth in a human-seeming mouth. Her face is more human, but that arguably makes it worse: there’s less excuse for why her face looks so wrong. Too angular, too pointed, too pale. Of all her features, she likes her eyes best: dark with a bit of light. Not unlike her nature, or maybe her nature is not unlike her eyes.

Her brother floats. He soars, and when she had wings she tried to emulate that. Graceful glides and swoops, sometimes letting the wind carry her, other times turning and tilting to sail one direction or another. If anything has ever been beautiful about her, Grim likes to think it was her flying. It certainly wasn’t her wings, however much she misses them. Great clumsy raggedy things, when they weren’t holding her aloft in the air. Always getting caught or tangled, shedding feathers no matter how carefully she groomed, dragging in the dirt of the ground or the dust of various floors.

Pitch slinks, and when she lost her wings she strove to imitate his movement instead. A regal, straight-backed stride, a casual slouch, a lazy, uncaring stroll. Silken, fluid, as if he were liquid shadow.

Before, when she wasn’t using her wings, Grim scrambled. She skittered around on awkward, scrawny limbs, fingers clutching and scrabbling for purchase, elbows and knees sticking out at odd angles, crouching and curling into herself whenever she dared stay still. Like a rat, or a spider, or any other pest seeking to make itself as unnoticed as possible.

She’d been looking in the mirror, a few months after That Incident with Bunny, a ribbon with a red pendant tied ‘round her throat. She’d a tube of lipstick in her hand (Molten Ruby, the label said) and had applied the makeup with a few cautious, neat swipes.

Grim had stood back and studied her reflection. She’d been wearing her red dress, though it had been greatly altered from the gown she’d worn to the prince’s party all those years ago. The hem no longer brushed the floor, but the tops of her knees. The necklace had remained exactly the same, and she had as well. She hadn’t worn lipstick at the party, but the bright crimson was striking, well suited to the vivid color of her outfit.

(On someone else, her mind whispered, this might even look pretty)

The colors were nice. She admired the colors. Black and white and red, like a fairytale princess awaiting a kiss from her prince to wake her.

(The princess in the story was fair, fairest in all the land)

Her hair looked nice. She’d always been moderately content with her hair. It was nice enough hair, and long enough that she could do whatever she pleased with it. That night she’d left it flowing, free of braid or bun, spilling down her back like ink.

(Your hair is passable, but you?)

(Ugly)

Chains wrapped around the mirror. She pulled, the links of metal chafing her palms, and it broke, shards of glass scattering around her feet.

She stood there for a long time, triangles of glass arrayed around her, reflecting red and black and white. She’d still been standing there when her brother had arrived.

He flew in through the window on one of his clouds, signing as he did so. (Where were you? I was looking for you at the party but I didn’t see you. No one else did either. What happened? Did you leave early? Did you-)

He broke off, seeing the mirror shattered on the floor.

(You’re bleeding.)

She laughed. (I can’t be bleeding. I don’t have blood, remember?)

He pointed, but she didn’t need to look to know that there was black, beading, pooling, dripping from a dozen tiny nicks and cuts on her ankles.

(It’s not blood,) she signed again.

(What happened?)

She laughed again, but what came out of her mouth sounded more like a sob.

(Wasn’t in the mood to party.)

She laughed/sobbed, and suddenly her brother’s arms were around her.

They sank to the floor together, her tears wetting his soft, golden shoulder, black not-blood pouring in rivulets from new gashes cut by triangles of glass.


	22. Ombré

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack tries to find out what Grim's wings looked like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, a break from the angst. Hopefully things will be a bit less angsty from here.

“Do you know what her wings looked like?” Jack asked.

North stopped fiddling with whatever contraption he was working on and looked up at his fellow Guardian, blue eyes startled. “What?”

“Grim. Back when she had wings, do you know what they looked like?”

“Grim had wings?”

Jack shrugged, hopping down from his perch on a nearby shelf. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

“Now I am curious about answer as well. Did not know Grim was having wings.” North strolled over to where his coat hung and dug a snow globe out of one of its pockets. “We ask Bunny- he knows her best. The Warren!” he commands the globe, throwing it on the ground so that it bursts in a flash of brilliant, swirling light.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bunny was used enough to the sight of one of North’s signature snow globe arrivals, but not quite enough to keep from dropping the egg he was working on when St. Nick performed one in the middle of the Warren. He let loose a few choice curses- that egg had sported an especially striking ombré that he was particularly proud of, at least up to the point where it smashed on the ground.

“Bloody-” Bunny let out a sharp breath. “North. …and Jack? What are you doing here?”

“We have question for you!” boomed North.

Bunny sighed resignedly. “Yeah, alright, what is it.”

“What did Grim’s wings look like?” Jack inquired, hopping up on top of one of the egg golems.

He sputtered. “W- wait, what?”

“Wings! What did they look like?” North clarified helpfully.

“N-no, I got that part, it’s just- Grim? The Grim Reaper? _Wings_?”

Jack frowned. “Aaaand he doesn’t know either. Figures.”

Bunny side-eyed the frosty sprite, who was now lying upside-down on the stone-faced sentry of the Warren.

“How do _you_ know she had wings?” he demanded.

“She told me.”

“Yeah, but-” Bunny cut himself off again. “Well, if you wanted to know so badly, why ask me? Why not ask her brother?”

“Grim is having brother now as well? Where is he?”

The Guardian of Hope rolled his eyes. “C’mon. You know who Sandy is, North.”

Jack sat upright, nearly tumbling off the golem. “Sandman?”

“Did not know he was having sister, especially not the Grim Reaper,” North mused.

“Well, they’re not biologically related or anything. Sandy told me he just found her one day, though he didn’t say anything about her having wings.”

Bunny turned to find he was addressing empty air. The wintery Guardians had already rushed off to interrogate their next victim.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Sandy! Hey, Sandy!”

Jack waved his hands like an airport traffic controller signaling that it was clear to come in for a landing. Sandman peered over the edge of his dreamsand cloud and, recognizing his fellow Guardians, floated down with a smile.

(What’s up?) he signed.

“We have burning question for you, friend!” North proclaimed.

“Two, actually,” interjected Jack. “One, why didn’t you tell us you had a sister? Two, what did her wings look like? And, uh, while we’re asking, three: what happened to her wings? She told me a human was the reason she couldn’t fly anymore, but that’s all she told me.”

Sandy smiled, though his eyes were sad. (Three kinds of people in this world, Jack: those who can count, and those who can’t.)

“Yes, is more than two questions, but we must know!” North protested.

Sandy sighed and formed a new dreamsand cloud to seat himself on, sitting cross-legged as he beckoned for his friends to come closer. They obeyed, North crouching a bit in order to see eye-to-eye with his companions.

(None of you ever asked if I had any family,) Sandy began. (I didn’t really know it mattered. I don’t know if you guys have family, either.)

“I had a sister,” Jack offered.

“Lived in orphanage. Do not know of blood family, but had many many brothers and sisters,” North added.

Sandy nodded and continued. (Grim used to have black wings, like a raven’s, only bigger. A human cut them off- a nonbeliever. You ever wonder why humans can’t see magic?)

“Thought that was simply way things were,” North replied, and Jack agreed silently.

(Well, it is now. Back then, they could see magic just fine. But when that human cut Grim’s wings off, the Man in the Moon made a veil between the world of magic and mortals to keep anything like that from ever happening again.)

“She could not just regrow wings? Is not way of birds, but she is magic, like us,” North argued.

Jack’s eyes widened, realization striking. “Not when a human cut them off. That’s why the moon did what he did- so humans and people like us couldn’t hurt each other. Magic can hurt humans a lot, but humans can hurt magic a lot, too. Eventually one would’ve stamped the other out.”

Jack pictured what would’ve happened if humans had been able to see him back when he’d first changed, regardless of belief. Would he have been worshiped for his power? Locked up as a carnival freakshow? Maybe his abilities would’ve caused hysteria, forming mobs to hunt him down. It wouldn’t have been a picnic for the others, either: maybe North could’ve kept his more magical side a secret, but the other three were very clearly not human. He doubted Tooth, Easter, and Sandy would’ve been as well received if _everyone_ could see them.

(Before, people like us had to stay hidden. Now, we have to work to stay seen,) Sandy summarized. (Only Guardians have to depend on belief, but we’re practically immortal otherwise. Some magical peoples are immortal, too, but they’re not able to influence the mortal world like us. Others have long lifespans, but they do die. Grim and Pitch don’t fit in either category- belief influences their power, like us, but they don’t fade when people stop believing.) Sandy paused. North and Jack got the impression that he was taking a breath. (I was like that too, once.)

“But not anymore?” North inquired, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Sandy nodded. (Gave it up when I became a Guardian. Grim wasn’t too happy with that.)

Jack mulled over this, thinking of scars forming grooves in pale, thin skin. He stood on his toes and whispered something to North, whose eyes lit up. The Guardian of Wonder laughed, a hearty laugh where he buckled Jack’s knees with a slap to the back while holding his vast belly.

“Excellent idea! Come, Sandy, back to the Pole!”

A bemused Sandman allowed himself to be dragged off by a bright-eyed Jack and an enthusiastic North.


	23. Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch eats an apple and finds the Guardians arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a new challenger in the ring this chapter, my friends!

Pitch had never really cared for eating. It wasn’t necessary for immortals like him, so why bother? Grim took a dim view of this logic. She enjoyed sampling different cuisines whenever possible and encouraged the Nightmare King to do so as well.

Over the years, through the Reaper’s intervention, Pitch had tried enough foods to at least form some preferences. Spicy foods, in his opinion, could burn in the hellfire they were apparently cooked in. Strong flavors in general tended to put him off, although he did have a certain fondness for coffee free of sugar and milk (unlike his more food-inclined companion, who would rather fill a mug with sugar and creamer, add a few drops of ‘joe,’ and call it a day). Heavier foods weren’t to his liking either. Grim would tear into a steak like a starving lion, but Pitch had only ever tried bites of foodstuffs such as pasta and cheesecake. Sweets tended to leave a sickly taste in his mouth, and sour things caused him to make faces that Grim found very amusing. Really, the only things the Boogeyman would eat without any encouragement from Grim were seafood, vegetables, and fruit, and only a few types of each at that.

If Grim had pressed him to select his favorite fruit, Pitch supposed he’d pick apples. They could be a bit too sour or sweet for his taste, but generally apples were the least offensive of fruits to his sensibilities. He also liked the _crunch_ they made when bitten into. It reminded him of the wet _snap_ of a breaking bone, but crisper.

He was eating an apple when he heard a commotion coming from above the caverns.

“Are you kidding me, Snowflake? If I can pick between this and another blizzard, I’ll take the blizzard.”

“Well, if you’re offering…”

“Rack off.”

“Bah! Is not bad as all that. He knows her well, yes?”

“…”

“See? Sandy agrees it’s a bad idea.”

“Well, North agrees with me, so we need someone to break the tie. Where’s Baby Tooth?”

“Ah, that’s not a good idea, Frostbite. Grimace and the fairies don’t get on any better than she and Tooth.”

“Natasha would say asking Pitch is good idea.”

There was another silence, too drawn-out to be just Sandman interjecting. It was broken by Frost.

“Who’s Natasha?”

“Never mind that,” the rabbit’s voice cut in brusquely. “Look, he and Grim know each other, but it’s not like they’re friends.”

“Really? Because the way she said it, it sounded like he was her only friend.”

“You sure about that, mate? Grim’s not exactly Miss Congeniality, but she’s had friends before.”

“Maybe she was meaning currently? Rainbow girl is passed on, and Natasha…is not here right now.”

“What am I, chopped liver? I’m her bloody friend, too.”

“Wait, didn’t she try to strangle you?”

“…”

“That’s kind of a weird way to show affection, Sandy.”

“We had a bit of a falling out. But we’re still chums.”

“Must’ve been some falling out.”

“We are getting off track. Are we going to go find Pitch or _nyet_?”

“No need for that,” Pitch announced, looking up at the Guardians from the caverns. “I’ve already found you, after all.”

The cavern’s new entrance was the mouth of a cave as opposed to a hole under some broken bedframe, so Pitch had a clear view of all their reactions to his presence. The rabbit tensed, hopping (heh, hopping) into a fighting stance. Sandy pulled out his whips, North drew his swords, and Jack held his staff with the hooked end mere inches from Pitch’s face.

Pitch glanced down at the crook, unimpressed. “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

Jack’s eyes flickered down to what Pitch was holding. He squinted.

“Is that an apple?”

“A Braeburn, to be exact. Now, what is it you want from me? I’ve plenty of free time on my hands nowadays, as you all know…”

“We are needing your help,” North said, crossing his arms while somehow managing not to cut them off at the elbows.

“We want to do something for Grim, and _they_ thought you should be a part of it,” Bunny corrected, scowling at the Boogeyman, Jack, and North in turn.

“Grim misses her wings, yeah?” Jack asked.

Pitch thought of hollow eyes squeezing shut, of screams of pain echoing off of the cavern walls.

“Where are you going with this?” he replied sharply.

“We are making present for her!” North exclaimed cheerfully.

Sandy nods. (Each of us are making something to remind her of her wings, or help her not miss flying as much.)

Pitch scoffs. “I see. All the Guardians getting together to give the poor outcast a Christmas present. If that’s the case, where’s the fairy bird?”

There were uncomfortable glances all around.

“I asked…” Jack mumbled. “She just…Tooth didn’t…”

“Grim hates her,” Bunny summarized. “And Tooth is scared of her. We’re not putting either of them through that.”

“And what makes you think Grim hates the Tooth Fairy so much? Do you think she’s jealous of her wings, hm?”

Bunny’s glare intensified. “Look, I don’t know everything that goes on in Grimace’s head. I just know she and Tooth get along about as well as a cat and a dingo.”

“Grimace? Oh, how sweet. You have a nickname for her. So tell me, if you’re such great friends, have you ever considered asking ‘Grimace’ _why_ she can’t stand Ms. Fair Fairy?”

Bunny moved forward, fists clenched, only to be stopped by a hand from either side gripping his arms: one from Sandy, one from North. “Listen here you dodgy dill-”

North raised the hand that wasn’t holding Bunny back in exasperation. “Enough, enough! This is about Grim. Put past in past and differences aside. Pitch, will you help?”

Pitch frowned and crossed his arms. “And you think I’d help you because…”

Bunny extricated himself from North’s grasp to gesture exasperatedly. “See? I told you. Why would Pitch care about anyone other than himself?”

There was a lancing pain in Pitch’s chest. He recognized the familiar burning and cursed silently, noting how Sandy’s eyes narrowed on his old nemesis.

“I’ll help, if only to keep you from pestering me,” Pitch snapped, trying to cover any sign of the ridiculous ache in his heart.

North nodded, satisfied. “Good. Is settled then. Jack, come with me.”

The Guardians dispersed, leaving Pitch with a half-eaten apple in his hand and a warmth that had somehow persisted from the day an arrow had pierced him through.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jack trailed after North, glancing around the workshop apprehensively.

“What’s this about all of a sudden?” he asked, dodging a flying contraption.

North beckoned him up a flight of stairs. As Jack caught up to him, North pulled some hidden lever, revealing a new, smaller spiral of stairs. North ascended them silently, wordlessly indicating for Jack to do the same. Apprehension growing, he obeyed.

At the top of the stairs was a brightly painted door. Jack saw North’s back passing through it, leaving the door open behind him. Cautiously, Jack slipped through.

The room he entered was simultaneously typical of what he’d come to expect of the North Pole, and completely different from everything else. It had colorful walls and floors, with cheerful yellow tiles under his feet and reds and greens stained into the woodwork of the beams crisscrossing above his head. It was clean, cozy, and comfortable, but much quieter than what Jack associated with North’s workshop. Almost automatically, he began to relax.

“What is this place?” he questioned, seeing North’s somber expression.

“Is Natasha’s room,” he rumbled. “You know of Mrs. Claus?”

Jack felt his stomach drop. _Oh._

“I’m sorry. How did she…”

“Is not dead,” North reassured him. “Not exactly. Is just…gone.”

Jack tilted his head, puzzled. “Gone?”

“Belief, it comes and goes. You remember how Sandy was gone for while, yes?”

North continued as Jack nodded. “Mrs. Claus, her belief comes and goes. Right now, most children know of Mr. Claus, but in Mrs. they do not believe as much. So she is gone now, but when belief is strong enough, she will come back.”

Jack glanced around again, realizing how tidy everything was. “How long has she been gone?”

North smiled sadly. “Almost ten years now. Is shame you did not become Guardian sooner: she would have liked you.”

North exited the room, leaving Jack alone.

Jack examined his surroundings more closely, spotting little notes in delicate handwriting that definitely wasn’t North’s, sprigs of holly and pinecones in charming little arrangements, and other subtle, feminine touches that had been left by Mrs. Claus. Skimming his fingers across a table, Jack picked up a salt-and-pepper shaker in the shape of a redheaded woman from its place next to its matching shaker, which held the form of a red-coated man with a full white beard.

“I wish I could’ve met you,” he remarked to the shaker, admiring the lovingly painted details in the face.

“Well, I’m not a genie, but I can at least grant that wish.”

Jack jumped and dropped the shaker.

Mrs. Claus caught it and replaced it neatly, sweeping a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she smiled at Jack.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear. I’m Natasha. And you are?”

“…Jack,” he answered, mouth still hanging open.

“Jack. Such a nice name. I’d love to talk more with you, but I need to let my husband know I’m back. Have you met Nicky yet? I assume you have, since you’re in here. I do hope he’s been keeping the elves in order while I’m away…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is the property of the magnificent shortstaxx, who graciously gave me permission to feature her in this fanfic.


	24. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I've forgotten to post some of the chapters I wrote. This is one of them.

Nikolai St. North was a man who expressed his happiness in grand, sweeping gestures. He never just smiled- his face would light up, his eyes would brighten, he’d throw his arms open as if preparing to give a bear hug. He was larger than life, a literal legend, and not given to quietness.

So when Mrs. Claus made her way down to the workshop, Jack expected North to give a great, joyous shout, or sweep his wife up in his arms and spin her around. He did not expect Mr. Claus to stand there, dumbstruck, mouth slightly open, but no words forthcoming.

Natasha smiled gently up at her husband as she approached him, lifting her hand to cradle his rosy cheek.

“Hello, Nicky,” she whispered.

The spell was broken. North let out a belly laugh and plucked up his wife as easily as if she were a feather, eyes full of wonder as he danced her around and around, the bustling yetis clearing a space for the couple even as they gathered around to see the returned Mrs. Claus.

When her husband had finally let her feet touch the ground again, and she’d managed to greet the yetis and elves, Natasha made her way over to Jack. The young winter spirit was impressed to see that even the elves got out of her path, as opposed to remaining stumbling blocks as they did for North.

“So how do you know Nicky?” Natasha asked pleasantly, withholding a giggle as her husband planted a kiss on her cheek before going back to work.

“Uh, well, Ni-North and I go back a ways, actually. Even before I became a Guardian, we’d run into each other now and then. Now that I am a Guardian, though, I see him a lot more.”

“You two get along?”

“We’re pretty good pals, I think. He can be a bit…uh…”

“Overbearing?”

“Sometimes.”

“I understand,” Natasha sympathized. “I am glad you two are friendly. You’re getting along with the others as well, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah. Bunny and I didn’t get off to the best start, but we’re cool now. Sandy’s always been pretty chill, and Tooth was never icy towards me.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Do you know Grim, by any chance?”

“Yeah, what gave it away?”

“You seem to share her love of terrible puns.”

“Ouch, that’s cold.”

Natasha swept her long red braid over her shoulder and laughed, green eyes sparkling. “I wish we could’ve met earlier. I wonder why Grim never introduced us.”

“Oh, I only met Grim a few weeks ago. How long have you known her?”

“We’ve been friends for decades, dear. I think we’ve known each other for…oh, about a hundred years now?”

“Did you ever see her wings?”

Natasha blinked, startled. “How do you know about her wings?”

“She told me.”

Mrs. Claus frowned, absently winding a stray lock of hair around her finger. Jack noted that the white streaks in her strikingly red hair were highly reminiscent of a candy cane.

“You’ve only known her a few weeks, you said?” Natasha confirmed, puzzled.

Jack nodded. “Why? Is that important?”

She shrugged, tucking the stray lock behind her ear. “As far as I know, she’s only ever told two other people about her wings, and one of them is me.”

“And the other is Sandy?”

“Oh. Well, I suppose, but he wasn’t really who I was thinking of. He was there when it happened, after all- I wasn’t, and neither was Gabby.”

Jack threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Gabby? Who the heck is Gabby?! How many more friends are you guys hiding from me?!”

“Calm down, dear. Here, have a cup of cocoa,” she offered, plucking a mug off of a passing tray. The disgruntled yeti carrying said tray looked as if he might take issue with this, but Mrs. Claus held up a finger and the yeti trundled away, grumbling.

Jack took the mug, cautiously wrapping his fingers around it as he blew some of the steam curling from the liquid inside. “Sorry, Mrs. Claus. I just…I don’t like it when there’s a bunch of stuff going on that I don’t know about, you know? For years all I knew about myself was my name and the fact no one could see me. I’m trying to stay in the loop now, but…” He took a sip of cocoa. “It’s hard. Especially when you guys have been around for so long. No offense- you look great for somebody over a hundred.”

Natasha laughed again, putting hand to her heart as she graciously accepted the compliment with a little curtsy. “Oh, I’m well over two hundred now, my dear. What about you? Have you hit the big one-oh-oh yet?”

He grinned. “Yeah, three times over.”

“Goodness! I never would have guessed it. Wait…” she squinted, appraising him. “That would make you older than me. That can’t be right.”

Jack bowed. “I’m still young at heart, thankyouverymuch.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Natasha remarked warmly, giving him a motherly pat on the head. “I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths before, in any case- you’re a winter spirit, yes? I’d have thought Nicky would have at least mentioned you to me.”

“I did only get my first real believer a few years ago, but…you sure North never mentioned Jack Frost?”

Natasha’s hands flew to her mouth. “ _The_ Jack Frost?”

“Ooh, I get a _the_! Very nice.”

“Very naughty,” she countered. “You hold the record for longest consecutive run of being on the naughty list, you know.”

Jack chuckled. “It’s become a little harder to keep up my reputation now that I’m a Guardian and all, but my record’s holding strong.”

“Well that won’t do- only good girls and boys get to try my famous gingerbread!” she warned him.

“Wait, what?! North! You never told me there was gingerbread on the line, here!” Jack protested.

North shrugged jovially, then returned to working on whatever thingamabob he was constructing. Mock-outraged, Jack turned back to his conversation partner.

“Can you believe this?! All these years, and he was holding out on me!”

“Honestly, I’m not surprised. Nicky probably wanted to eat all of it himself. So be good now- my husband needs to try for a healthier diet,” she stated, the last part a touch louder than the rest of her sentence.

North pretended not to hear as Jack doubled over laughing.


	25. Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time!

Sleepovers tended to do very little with sleeping and very much with staying up all night watching movies, eating popcorn, and gossiping. Gabby knew this from experience as a high school girl, and although this sleepover was with immortals well over the age of a typical ninth-grader, it promised to be quite similar.

Gabby, Natasha, and Grim all enjoyed movies (Gabby liked comedies, Natasha preferred animated musicals, and Grim was a fan of old horror films ranging from cheesy to chilling). They were all a fan of popcorn too: Gabby put an unholy combination of every popcorn topping imaginable on hers, which Grim delightedly imitated, while Natasha stuck to sprinkling a pinch of cinnamon sugar on hers. The one thing opinions diverged on was gossip: Natasha didn’t hold to idle, aimless speculation on things that really weren’t any of their business. Fortunately for Gabby, Grim was more than happy to make up for that.

“…and I think he might be a little bit afraid of geese now,” the Reaper confided between giggles.

Gabby grinned mischievously. “So if I got a pet goose…”

“Oh, darling, don’t do that. He might not be able to die, but I believe a heart attack is still a possibility for brother dearest.”

Natasha tutted disapprovingly as she gathered everyone’s popcorn bowls. “Really, don’t you two have anything better to talk about?”

“Actually, yeah,” the brown-haired girl answered, rolling over on her sleeping bag to face Grim. “Everyone knows Sandy and I are a thing, and obviously Tasha is taken, but what about _you,_ Grim?”

Natasha returned from the kitchen. “If she doesn’t want to talk about it-”

“Well, you two might have only ever had one true love, but I’ve had several,” Grim interrupted.

Gabby blinked, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “What, really?!”

Natasha sighed. “Never mind. I don’t know why I was worried about you being shy about this.”

“Please, Tosh. You two know about my wings _and_ That Incident that happened with Pookie. Why would I hesitate to discuss my love life?”

Gabby propped herself up on her arms. “Speaking of Bunny, are you two…um…”

“Rabbit’s not on the menu for me right now, darling,” Grim stated flatly, causing Natasha to loose a scandalized “Oh!” accompanied by a hand over her heart. “We were never a couple, and even if I was interested, it won’t be happening.”

“So you _were_ interested?” Gabby chirped, wagging her feet back and forth.

Grim tossed a pillow at her. “You’re terrible.”

Natasha swooped in and plucked up the pillow, fluffing it before returning it to its owner. “Now that we’ve clarified _that_ , I believe it’s high time we all went to-”

“He _does_ call you cute nicknames,” Gabby pointed out.

Grim scoffed. “‘Grimace’ is hardly what I’d call a term of affection, Bee.”

“He _did_ take you back to the Warren the night of That Incident.”

“Because I was drunker than a clurichaun in a wine merchant’s cellar. He wasn’t about to drag me all the way back to my apartment when I could barely stand without falling over.”

“He could’ve used his tunnels to take you back to yours. Just saying.”

“And I’m just saying hauling a cot case up three flights of stairs is highly impractical. Discussion over.”

“He could’ve used the tunnel to bypass the stairs-”

“Gabby, she said ‘discussion over.’ Really-”

“-what’s a cot case?” Gabby asked innocently.

“Oh, it’s a slang term for a very drunk person,” Grim answered unsuspectingly.

“Interesting. Where’d you learn it from?”

Grim blushed. It was an interesting experience seeing the Reaper blush, Gabby thought- instead of cheeks reddening with the warm flush of blood, Grim’s face darkened to nigh black.

“Sounds to me like you’re not the only one who’s interested, _Grimace_ ,” Gabby teased.

Grim frowned. “You know what, Tosh? Maybe it is time for bed.”

“Wait, wait, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she apologized.

Grim shrugged nonchalantly, resting her head sideways on her pillow. “It’s quite all right, darling. I’ve had unrequited loves before, and I’m not sure this qualifies. I do feel _something_ for him, but it’s certainly not a yearning for him to kiss my hand and bring me flowers.”

Gabby lay down and took off her glasses, checking to ensure Natasha was out of earshot before whispering. “I don’t suppose you just want him to _de_ flower you?”

Natasha heard a snort of laughter and reentered the living room.

“Something funny?” Mrs. Claus inquired suspiciously.

Grim wiped her eyes, chest still shaking from laughter. “Oh, goodness! I’ve been married before, you know, and some of those marriages _were_ consummated-”

“Grim! Do you really have to say such things in front of Gabby?”

“She was the one asking if I had any interest in being bedded by Bunny!” the Reaper protested.

“Gabby Colette Colorato!”

“Tattletale,” Gabby muttered. Grim stuck out her tongue before continuing.

“I did lay with my spouses, at least with the ones who desired it, but I never felt any particular inclination towards such activities myself. Several of my marriages were quite happy without need of anything past cuddling or butterfly kisses.”

The brown-haired girl nodded in comprehension as Natasha stood sputtering with arms akimbo. “Grim! That is _quite_ enough discussion of _that,_ thank you!”

“Pish posh, Tosh. You’re not exactly in a virgin marriage yourself, are you?”

Natasha huffed and flicked the light switch. “Go to sleep!”

“Good night,” Gabby called.

“Good night,” Grim parroted.

“…Good night, girls.”


	26. Fairytale

_Once upon a time, there was a lady._

_This lady smiled and laughed, but she did not live. The world feared her, for things that do not live should not smile and laugh. What they could not see that was her heart was broken. Most things that do not live cannot have broken hearts, for most must have their hearts beating in order for them to break. So the lady was alone, and she stayed so for a long time._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grim danced with Pitch for hours that night, twirling through the silent, bloodstained halls of the abbey. They stepped over and upon the bodies of the prince’s cronies, though not on the prince himself- Grim steered their course quite clear of the black room.

Afterwards, they drank, Pitch sipping demurely and Grim gulping from goblets filled to the brim.

“Are you trying to give yourself a hangover worse than all of your previous ones combined, or are you hoping to put yourself into a coma?” the Boogeyman commented dryly.

“And who says I’m not going for both?” the Reaper slurred before taking a hearty swig straight from a bottle.

Pitch chuckled and took another sip from his not-quite-half-emptied cup. “You’re going to hate yourself for this in the morning…” He glanced out a window contemplatively. “…or later today, as it were.”

Grim laughed hysterically.

“ _The round Moon rolled behind the hill,_

_the Sun raised up her head._

_She hardly believed her fiery eyes;_

_though it was day, to her surprise_

_they all went back to bed_!” she belted drunkenly, emphasizing the last verse by sweeping her hand to indicate the bodies scattered across the floor.

“Oh, the sun’s far from rising right now, darling. Your sins won’t see daylight for a couple hours yet.”

Grim wrinkled her nose. “It’s not sinning if it’s your job, dear,” she corrected, wagging a reprimanding finger at her companion before taking another gulp of wine.

Pitch rolled his eyes. “Try telling that to your brother. Every time I try to scare a child, he takes issue with it like it’s a personal affront.”

“Well, maybe getting in your way is _his_ job, hobgoblin. Have you considered that?”

“It’s a stupid job,” he grumbled with his lips to his goblet. “He’s always had a problem with me, but ever since his little ‘promotion’ from Mim he’s been positively _insufferable_. Can’t a specter haunt in peace nowadays?”

Grim stuck out her tongue. “If you can’t rest in peace, what’s the point of doing anything else in peace?”

“Don’t get philosophical now. I’m not drunk yet.”

She opened her mouth to retort, her head lolling back, but the only thing that came out was a snore.

Grim woke alone in the dark, with a hangover that, if not worse than, certainly rivalled all her previous hangovers to date. This was not helped by the fact that the first sight greeting her eyes upon her opening them was the moon shining full and bright through the window. She groaned and threw a hand over her face.

“Not now, Mim. Turn it off,” she grumbled.

The moon, most disagreeably, did not turn off.

With a resigned sigh, Grim slowly peeled herself off the ground and stumbled her way through to the doors leading outside. Upon opening the door, she immediately regretted her decision, her brow creasing as the moonlight seared her face.

“Can’t you take that somewhere else?” she yelled, wincing at the volume of her voice.

The moon stayed put.

Grim sighed again, slumping to the ground.

“I’m so tired,” she mumbled. “I’m so…I just…I don’t want to do this anymore, Mim. I don’t want to _be_ like this anymore. Why am I like this?”

The question was as much to herself as to the moon, though neither provided any answer.

She hid her face in her hands. “I never asked to be like this. I never asked to be in the first place. Why do I exist?”

Grim felt dampness on her palms and yanked her hands away, staring uncomprehendingly at the tears shining below her fingers. She moved her gaze up to the moon, squinting against the brightness.

“Do you know?” she asked, voice cracking. “You were here before me. You were here before all of us. Can you tell me?”

Her throat pulsed as she fought back a sob.

“Can you change me? Make me something else? Anything else?”

“Why would you want that?”

She flinched, turning to see Pitch standing behind her with his arms crossed.

“What on this earth would drive you to ask _him_ ,” the Boogeyman seethed, “to _change_ you? You scorned your brother’s decision before: now you seek to make the same? Are you so desperate to become Mim’s lackey?”

Grim sneered. “Not all of us enjoy being the monster, _darling_. You might revel in your role, but I tire of mine. Now, if you’re done criticizing my wanting to be something other than ugly and despicable-”

“You think you’re ugly?” he interrupted.

“And despicable. As I was saying-”

“Well, you’re wrong. On all three counts,” he stated bluntly.

“I only said I was ugly and despicable. You didn’t let me list a third trait.”

Pitch knelt next to her.

“You said we were monsters. Am I? Certainly. You, however, are not.”

She scoffed. “Does it make a difference? It’s all the world sees me as.”

“I don’t,” he said gently.

Grim sniffled and wiped her eyes with a hoarse laugh. “You’re not the world.”

“I don’t mean the world to you? I’m wounded, Grim. Truly.”

She shoved him. “You already seem to think the world of yourself, dear. I don’t think your ego needs the help.”

He put a hand over hers. “Your self-esteem does, apparently.”

Grim closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his arm.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_The lady had wings, and so she would fly. She rarely let her feet touch the ground._

_The world did not understand how she could fly, when her heart did not beat like all other flying things. The world tied her up and cut her wings, trying to figure out how something that did not live could soar and swoop and feel joy._

_After that, the lady could not soar or swoop. For a long time, she could not feel joy either._

_Then one night, the lady met a child, beautiful as the first snow of winter. She loved the child as her own, cradling him in her arms and rocking him to sleep._

_The moon saw this and mourned, for he knew the child could not stay with the lady. He told her this, but she refused to believe him, and so her heart was broken again when the child left._

_The child could not stay, but he could visit her, and so he did._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grim smiled at Jack as he spun across the ice. “Pookie was right when he called you a show pony.”

Jack laughed, the sound like icicles clinking. “What’s up with that nickname anyway? ‘Pookie?’ ‘Grimace’ I get, but how do you get from the Easter Bunny to ‘Pookie?’”

“Well, he wasn’t always the Easter Bunny, you know. Once he was a púca.”

“A what now?”

“A púca! They’re a kind of shapeshifting fairy.”

Jack raised an eyebrow as he gracefully slid from one foot to another. “A fairy? You mean like Tooth?”

Grim grimaced. “Mordice, or ‘Tooth’ as she’s known nowadays, might be a fairy, but she and Pookie aren’t much alike. For one thing, Pookie was born a fae: Tooth was made into one.”

“Sorry, I still don’t have everyone’s backstory yet. I didn’t even know there was really a Mrs. Claus until yesterday, you know. Oh! That reminds me, Natasha says hello. She also says you guys need to get together for cocoa or something sometime.”

“Tosh is back?” Grim clapped her hands together delightedly. “Lovely!”

“‘Tosh?’ Do you have nicknames for everyone?”

“Not everyone, darling.”

“Do you just call them ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ until you’ve figured one out, then?”

“My my, I’ve been found out. I’ll admit, I haven’t one for you quite yet. If you’ve any suggestions, I’m all ears.”

“Nah, Bunny is all ears. You’re all…I dunno,” Jack mused, waggling his fingers in the air expressively. “Flowy?”

“Flowy. Hm, I don’t think I’ve heard that particular description applied to me before.”

“Have you ever been described as ‘amazed?’” Jack questioned, skating over to her.

“Probably. Why the curiosity?”

Jack took her hands and led her to the middle of the frozen lake. “Prepare to be.”

She laughed as he placed her hands over her eyes, peeking through her fingers. “What’s this?”

He replaced the stray fingers. “Ah-ah-ah. It’s a surprise!”

“Ooh, a surprise! Fun. That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

Jack gently parted the back of her robes so that her scars were visible. Cautiously, he touched a finger to each scar and began tracing outwards, his hands quickly leaving her back and moving through open air.

Grim shivered, and he briefly placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder before remembering he was the equivalent of a human freezer. Or spirit freezer.

Carefully continuing his work, Jack blew a few stray snowflakes from his creation before adding a couple finishing touches. “Okay, look!” he commanded.

Grim dropped her hands, her expression bemused as she turned to see what was causing a cold weight on her back. She turned in several circles like a grim chasing its tail before thinking to look down at her reflection in the ice. Her hands flew up again, this time to her mouth, catching the gasp that escaped as she saw the blue-white wings sprouting translucent behind her.

“What do you think?” Jack asked cheerfully, hiding his mounting apprehension as he studied Grim’s frozen face.

The icy wings glimmered as Grim swayed from side to side experimentally, studying the glint of the moonlight off of each feather. She spun in another circle, slowly this time, eyes glued to her reflection.

A drop of water hit the ice.

Jack stared at the tear tracks freezing on her face. “Grim? Grim, are you okay?”

She laughed, wiping her eyes and turning to face him. “Never better, darling.”

She twirled again, opening her arms as if she might take flight. Jack followed her, summoning the wind to make the wings flutter. They danced across the ice, the sky reflected below them as if they were spinning through air instead of across a lake.

Finally Grim slowed, swaying to a stop and taking a seat on a nearby snowbank, clapping her hands to applaud the show. “I have it!”

Jack chuckled, sliding to a stop. “Have what?”

“Your nickname, mon flocon de neige.”

He whistled. “That’s kind of a mouthful for a nickname, don’t you think? Aren’t nicknames supposed to be short?”

“They usually are, but above all, nicknames are supposed to be affectionate, verglas.”

“Verglas? Is that another nickname?”

“Mm. Do you like it?”

He shrugged. “I mean, I wouldn’t want somebody else to call me that.”

“But as for me?” she inquired, fiddling with the chain around her neck.

Jack smiled. “Yeah, sure, you can call me mon flucon dee nej or whatever. I don’t mind.”

“Flocon de neige, my snowflake. Flocon de neige.”

“Whatever you say, Flowy.”

“Ooh, I get a nickname too! What a lovely present.”

Jack raised an eyebrow mischievously. “So if the nickname ‘Flowy’ is a lovely present, the wings must be something really special, huh?”

Grim grinned back at him. “Oh, the wings are marvelous, darling. Thank you.”

She rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his hoodie to hide the tears welling up again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_The child was no longer a child when he returned, but a man. Yet his eyes were still laughing and youthful, and his heart loved as a child’s did._

_The man found the lady broken and alone, though she hid it with smiles stretched wide. He had the wisdom of a child also, the young wisdom that only those with clear sight of the world can keep without it being tarnished by expectations or assumptions. The man saw the lady was broken, and he knew he could not heal her, could not take away her pain._

_But he could dull it, for a little while._

_And so he did, and kissed her ice cold so that her pain was numbed. He gave her beauty, crystalline and glittering and temporary, beauty that would fade in the warmth of long summers ahead. He gave her laughter, and smiles that were not masks, and he cared not that her heart did not beat, for his did not either._

_They were fleeting moments, the ones he gave to her, but they both knew in these fleeting moments she would find strength when the pain returned, and treasure the reprieve all the more because of it._

_The lady had been alone, and she knew a day would come when she would always be so. But for now, the lady is not alone, and she will treasure that while it lasts._


	27. Faces

Natasha glanced down at the grave. There were flowers there, as usual- Grim must’ve been visiting in her absence. She picked up the bouquet and examined its contents.

“Let’s see, carnations, marigolds, snowdrops, periwinkles, rosemary…are those blue or purple hyacinths?”

“Both,” Grim answered, walking up behind Mrs. Claus with a fresh bouquet in her arms. “Also oak-leaf geranium. And, ah, you forgot the forget-me-nots.”

Natasha chuckled. “What’s with the tree branches?”

“They’re cypress and weeping willow. If I’d known you’d be here, I would’ve brought lilies-of-the-valley,” Grim commented, gesturing to the bundle of flowers she was carrying.

“Lilies-of-the-valley? What do those represent?”

Grim smiled. “Return of happiness.”

Natasha wiped her eyes and swept the Reaper up into a hug.

“Tosh, darling, you’re crushing the flowers.”

“It’s good to see your face,” Natasha whispered, blinking back further tears.

“I don’t know why it would be: yours is so much prettier. Well, perhaps not when you wrinkle your nose at me like that-”

“Riri,” Natasha chided.

Grim chuckled. “Riri. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that one.”

Natasha nodded, looking back down at the grave.

“Was it her or me that came up with that one?” Mrs. Claus inquired.

“That was Bee’s creation, I do beelieve. You came up with ‘Smerts.’”

Natasha laughed, a tinkling sound like bells jingling. “Smert’s kosoy!”

“Mm. It’s grown on me, I’ll admit, but ‘Grimace’ is still my favorite. ‘Grimy’ is a close second, though.”

Natasha suppressed a smile. “How is Greasy nowadays?”

“He’s doing quite well. A little lonely sometimes, I think- I should get him and Pookie out for a drink sometime.”

“It must be depressing, to be the last of your kind,” Natasha murmured.

Grim’s gaze dropped to the flowers decorating the grave. “It’s lonely being one of a kind, too.”

Natasha smiled sadly up at her friend and embraced her gently, mindful of the bouquet.


	28. Skyline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bunny suffers. Physically and emotionally.

Bunny was used to Grim stealing his things. When she grabbed his boomerang, he hadn’t thought anything of it. When she’d dodged his attempt to snatch it back, though, he realized something was different.

“What’re you doing, Grim?” he asked flatly, raising an eyebrow as she danced out of his reach.

“Catch me if you can,” she teased, showing all her teeth in a flirtatious grin before darting off in a trail of black smoke.

Bunny wasn’t used to Grim using his possessions as bait, but he was used to her games. Typically they weren’t quite as literal as tag, but he wasn’t exactly surprised to find himself running through a forest, chasing her laughter and the swish of her robes.

(It was fun, a small part of him admitted. It was fun, to chase and track her down. It must be fun. Why else would his heart pound so wildly, his blood run so hot? Why else would his ears be straining so intently for some clue as to where she was?)

Finally he found his boomerang lying in the middle of a clearing, the trees forming a nearly perfect circle around him as he went to pick it up. He smiled to himself- she was frustrating, inexplicable, and a bit of a pain at times, but for better or worse Grim was what she was, and he wouldn’t wish her to change a bit.

(If only he could understand why she didn’t want to be friends anymore. At times it seemed like she did, but then-)

Bunny noticed the glint of the scythe’s blade a second before it buried itself in the ground where he had been standing.

“Feisty today, aren’t we?” he commented dryly, looking over his shoulder at Grim.

She made no witty retort, gave no cocky smile. Instead, the scythe swung towards him again, this time at his neck. Bunny ducked, backing away as soon as the blade had passed him.

“Oi!” he shouted, letting his exasperation show clearly enough in his voice that he hoped it would cover the fear and confusion lurking there. “What’s the bloody idea?!”

She grinned at him then, but it wasn’t teasing, wasn’t playful. It was the grin of a predator, a hunter, and he felt an old instinct rise up at the sight of it.

_Danger afraid run hide_

“Run,” she crooned, the lines of her face harsh, her eyes hungry and a little bit cruel. “Run.”

He stood his ground, and her expression tightened.

“Why’d you want me to run for?” he asked irritatedly, trying to will his heart to slow.

She pounced then, knocked him onto his back, and he immediately put his arms up to protect his throat.

Grim didn’t try to strangle him this time. Instead, she put a hand to each of his shoulders and set her face close

(too close)

to his, letting him feel the chill of her breath.

“Don’t run, then,” she snarled.

 _I could probably overpower her_ , Bunny thought. _I could probably push her off and run while she was off-balance. I could fight. I can’t die, so I should be able to fight her._

_So why aren’t I?_

“Is this what you wanted, then?” she growled.

( _I’m afraid_ , Bunny thought. He must be afraid. Why else would his heart feel like it was threatening to burst from his chest? Why else would he be so aware of the glint of her teeth, the grip of her fingers?)

“You chased me,” she whispered, her eyes burning. “You caught me. Now you have me, and I have you.” She punctuated the last statement by releasing one of his shoulders, walking her fingers up his arm, across his chest, up his neck. She tapped his nose with a mock-playfulness, her chest quivering with rage.

“Will you surrender so easily?” she hissed, and her nails dug into his fur, into his skin, piercing through. “Are you so willing to die?”

He threw his arms up and pulled her down on top of him, capturing her in a crushing embrace. She went very still before relaxing, curling up against his chest.

“Why do you welcome me so readily?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“You’re my friend,” he replied easily, and booped her nose. “Even if you’re a bit crook sometimes.”

He felt a slight pain and shrugged, assuming a mosquito had tried to take a bite of him. The pain intensified, and he frowned, looking down to see if he could spot the bloody pest. Then he froze.

Grim had latched her teeth into his neck, letting blood trickle out of her mouth onto his chest. Her eyes were stony as she stared up at him.

_Danger afraid run hide_

_Fight_

He didn’t run or fight. How could he? The sight of the blood, _his blood,_ spilling like some macabre paint onto the canvas of his fur…it was paralyzing. Mesmerizing.

Grim lifted her head from his neck and licked her lips.

(His eyes followed the flick of her tongue over red-stained teeth)

“You’ll excuse me, I hope,” she snarked. “I didn’t get any breakfast.”

He twitched, otherwise staying totally still, and her expression turned from bitter to blank.

“Why won’t you run?” she asked hoarsely. “Why won’t you fight?”

Bunny began to answer, but his words came out as a gurgle, more blood gushing out and dribbling onto the grass beneath him.

Grim sighed, pushing her hair back. It struck him that she looked tired, tired and sad.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, holding the hem of her robe over his throat to quell the bleeding. “I just…I’m sorry.”

He swallowed, or tried to. “Hgggkkkkkkrgh.”

She raised a finger to her lips, her eyes dull. “Don’t, love. Just don’t.”

Several minutes passed before his throat healed enough for him to breathe properly, and he judged that it had been nearly an hour before he risked speaking.

“What, for the love of Mim and all that’s sacred, was that?” he croaked incredulously.

She laughed, a humorless, self-deprecating sound. “Why didn’t you run?”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not scared of dying,” he amended.

She rounded on him, fists clenched as if to keep from wrapping her fingers around his still-tender throat. “Why not?”

“Because I’m immortal.”

Grim laughed again, crazed and broken, tears forming in her eyes. “No, you’re not! You depend on belief, but not all believe, and those who do will die, and you’ll die with them!”

He stared at her as she continued, her hands now gripping her hair so tightly he could see black not-blood shining at her roots. “You’re going to die, and I’m going to come find you, and you’ll leave, and…and…”

She took a too-deep breath, failing to steady herself, her voice shaking.

“You have to run,” she told him, her tone begging. “You have to run or hide so I can’t find you, or you have to fight. You have to beat me. You have to win, or you’ll die.”

She lowered her hands, and he saw the shine of black not-blood sprinkled amongst the wisps of hair freshly torn from her head.

Bunny reached towards her hands. Before he could grasp them, she collapsed face first into his lap, shaking with a joyless mix of laughter and sobbing. He put a paw on her back and cradled her, stroking her torn scalp until her body’s trembling lessened, slowed, stopped.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bunny wasn’t sure why he’d brought Grim back to the Warren. He knew where her apartment was, after all- he could’ve just taken her back there. Left her alone, let her wake up with a hangover and no one there to check on her…actually, yeah, he was pretty sure why he’d brought the Reaper with him instead of dumping her back at her place.

He poked his head out on the surface to check the time. The sun was peeking over the skyline- Grim would likely be waking up soon.

He went to check on her, carrying a pitcher of coffee. Not just any coffee: a strong brew of his own concoction, specially formulated to assist in getting over hangovers. Bunny had enough experience waking up after being legless that he’d figured out what exactly helped with the headache that came after. He began pouring some coffee into a cup, wondering if Grim was awake yet.

The question was rapidly answered when Grim knocked him over and pinned him to the ground, wrapping her fingers around his throat.

He gagged, scrabbling to pry her fingers off. He looked up to her face, straining to see why she was strangling him.

Her hair spilled around them, a dark curtain obscuring his view of her face. He managed to glimpse her eyes, wide and wild, staring down at him without really seeing him.

“G-grrk,” he choked.

Apparently the attempt to say her name was sufficient for her to recognize it, or at least snap her out of whatever trance she was in. Her eyes widened further, this time in horror, and she jumped off of him as he gasped for breath.

Recovering, he sat up and began slowly rising to his feet. Grim flinched and drew away.

Bunny lifted a paw, reaching out to her. “Grim-”

She darted away, and his fingers barely brushed the fabric of her robe before she was gone.

Bunny stood there, alone in the dark, rubbing his throat and wondering what incident had just occurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't really indicated in the text, but the first section actually happens after the second, chronologically.  
> The second section is the story of That Incident.


	29. Breakfast

Grim hadn’t really intended for things to go the way they had.

She’d avoided Bunny ever since That Incident. She would’ve kept avoiding him, but then he’d made his way back into her life through the company of Jack Frost. She couldn’t avoid him all of the time, not without sacrificing her time with Jack, and after three hundred years of leaving Frost isolated she wasn’t about to do _that_ , not for anything.

Still, she’d managed to dance around the subject. Grim and Bunny had talked since their reunion, had some witty banter, joked around, teased and tormented. It was easier than she’d anticipated, to fall back into their old pattern.

But their old pattern had been broken for a reason, and Bunny insisted on coming back to that reason, over and over again. So, over and over again, Grim ran away from it.

It was a new pattern, almost identical to the old, but with one important change to the cycle. Perhaps she could’ve learned to live with it, at least until it was inevitably upset again. However, instead of waiting for the inevitable, Grim had initiated it.

She really hadn’t intended to. She’d stolen one of his funny bent-stick weapons, led him on a merry chase through the woods. She’d set it down for him to find in some clearing, and

(his eyes wide and bright with adrenaline)

he’d come into the clearing, picked up his stick, and-

-it was an instinct, automatic, when she struck. He dodged- her approach was too sloppy for there to have been any other outcome- but she struck again, and she smiled, and she told him (warned him) to run.

He hadn’t. He’d stayed there, stubborn and stupid, and she’d wanted to scream at him.

_Run, you idiot. Run from me. I’m the reason why someday you will not exist in this world. I am dangerous. I am a monster. Fear me, you fool. Despise me. Hate me._

But he hadn’t, because he never had. He feared her, as all things should, but what good was fear if it didn’t compel one to run, to hide, to escape? How could he hope to flee Death when he kept welcoming her with open arms?

She looked up at him, her mouth bloody, and sneered.

_Can’t you see I’m dangerous?_

“You’ll excuse me, I hope. I didn’t get any breakfast.”

He stared at her, completely still save for the jerking of his body as it lost more and more blood.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tooth gasped and flung the tooth away from her, watching them fall to the grass at Bunny’s feet. Bunny picked it up and examined it.

“How’d you get Grimace to hand over a couple’a her choppers anyway?” he asked.

Tooth stared at the small pointed object in her fellow Guardian’s paws, then at the Guardian himself. She studied the tenderness in his eyes, clouded by hurt.

“I just asked her,” she answered truthfully. “She gave me the teeth and then asked if I wanted anything from her ‘collection.’” Tooth shuddered. “What does she collect, anyway? Bones?”

“You collect bones.”

“I collect teeth,” she corrected.

“Well, Grim collects colors, so ya don’t need to keep making that face, sheila.” Bunny squinted at her. “How come you turn chook whenever she’s around, anyway? What’s she done to you?”

“Nothing! She just hates me! I don’t know why, but…well…she always has this look on her face whenever I’m around, like she’s going to…” Tooth flailed.

Bunny raised an eyebrow. “Kill you?”

She sighed. “I know, I know, it’s ridiculous.”

“Everyone’s a bit scared of the Reaper, mate. Someone tells you otherwise, they’re either lying or stupid. Or Sandy.”

“Or Pitch?” she suggested.

Bunny frowned slightly. “Eh, maybe.”

“He seems to like her,” Tooth added cautiously.

Bunny wrinkled his nose and put his ears back. “Don’t think Pitch can ‘like’ anyone. Maybe he ‘likes’ the fear that comes with her.”

Sensing a touchy subject, Tooth quickly steered back to safer waters. “So what did you need the teeth for?”

“A project,” Bunny answered cryptically. “Speaking of, I need two teeth for this to work. Where’s the other one?”

Tooth brought it out hesitantly. She’d peeked at the memories inside the first, but after the sight that had greeted her, she wasn’t certain doing so again would be a good idea. Then again, when would she have another opportunity like this, to have a glimpse inside of Grim’s mind, to understand how she felt?

Tooth took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grim woke up in a strange place.

It was dark, which wasn’t strange. What was strange was that it was warm and smelled of dried grass and clean fur, like an unnaturally tidy barn. It didn’t _feel_ like a barn, however: she felt no wooden floor beneath her bed of straw, and the walls were more like those of a den, with no timbers set in the packed dirt.

She sat up slowly, wincing at her aching head, when a clinking sound caused her to fall back into a lying position. Supporting herself on her elbows, Grim looked to the source of the clinking.

There was a figure- tall, and dark, but not Pitch. The shape was wrong. The figure was holding something, too. A bottle?

A blade?

The chains weren’t binding her this time, and so she did what she would’ve done had her torturer not thought to restrain her with her own devices: she sprang forward and throttled them, squeezing her hands around their neck and

it wasn’t them

it was him

she sprang off of him, hands shaking, scars blazing, head spinning from a night of alcohol and centuries of pain. Grim saw him get up, gasping for breath, saw his eyes wide and green and _scared_

and she ran, and ran, and kept running.

When her legs gave out (far sooner than her wings would’ve), she collapsed to the ground and stared at her hands, white and trembling.

She’d been born with gloves, black ones with claws at the ends. One day she’d been scratching at what she’d always assumed to be her skin and found that by pulling, her ‘skin’ slid off to reveal white flesh underneath.

She began scratching at her hands, her wrists, tugging at her skin as if it might come off and reveal something new underneath, something brilliant and wonderful and not _ugly ugly ugly_

Her white skin peeled away under her nails, but there was no new layer of skin, nothing beautiful hiding underneath. Just wet black muscle and tendon and vein, clustered together in an imitation of a mortal’s flesh. No pulse in the veins, no blood flowing through, just cold liquid metal and the sense that whatever she was was natural, yes, but abhorrent all the same.

Grim screamed and grabbed at her face, feeling her skin rip under her fingers, feeling _pain pain pain_ as she _pulled,_ gripping her face and dragging it away as if by getting rid of it she might somehow become beautiful. She threw pale skin wetted by liquid black onto the ground in disgust and began clawing at what was left of her face, tearing off the last of the skin clinging to her cheeks, picking away her eyelids, hissing at the sting of the tears leaking onto raw flesh.

Grim knelt there for a long time, staring blankly at black not-blood and thin white skin scattered over the grass at her feet. Gradually she became aware of a sensation besides the pain lancing through her and the disgust churning her stomach.

She reached up with not-bloody fingers and plucked Pitch Black’s hand off of her shoulder. “What do you want?”

His hand placed itself on her opposite shoulder. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I owe you no answers.”

“And I owe you no questions, but I gave you one anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m obligated to answer.”

His grip tightened, and a chill accompanied the next wave of pain in her scars as Grim realized he was prodding at the fear in her not-beating heart, pulling it to light.

“Stop that,” she spat.

His grip loosened, released. “You’re afraid of being alone.”

“And you’re afraid of feeling like you don’t exist, but that won’t stop it from happening.”

He slid back into the shadows, his voice ringing around her. “You’re afraid that the nature of what you are will always lead to tragedy for anyone you love.”

“Am I wrong?” she asked dryly.

“No.”

She scoffed, rising to her feet and touching a hand to her face, feeling the skin grow back little by little even as she spoke. “Then what else is there to talk about?”

“I’ll always be here,” he reminded her. “I always have been.”

“Hm. Strangely, I’m not looking forward to the day where you, Mim, and me are the only ones holding dominion on earth,” she sneered. “As much as you try to hasten that day’s coming, I’m afraid you are the only one eager for it to arrive. Besides, its arrival is inevitable: why try to speed up the process?”

“You’re afraid of getting your heart inevitably being broken, so you break it yourself before anyone else can. I think my logic makes more sense than that, at least.”

She growled. “Fine, so we’re both idiots. Now if you’re done psychoanalyzing me-”

“You’re afraid I’ll grow bored of you,” the Boogeyman interrupted. “You’re afraid that I put up with you because I find you challenging and therefore interesting. You’re afraid that I see you as an annoyance who’s occasionally amusing, and once you cease being amusing, I will no longer tolerate your company.”

“Again, am I wrong?”

Grim sensed that Pitch reappeared, but she couldn’t tell where he was. Nevertheless, his voice was close by as he replied.

“Your nature will always lead to tragedy for those you love, but not for the reasons you think.”

“Oh, so my being Death has nothing to do with it? Pray tell, what other reasons are there?”

She flinched as his breath tickled the side of her still-healing face.

“It isn’t your nature as the Reaper, Grim. It’s your nature of being cruel to yourself so that you’re hurt less when the world is cruel to you.”

She turned, nose to freshly-healed nose with the Boogeyman. He moved his head back just enough so that they were no longer touching.

“And by the way, that particular coping mechanism does nothing but wound you more in the long run. If you want my advice on the matter, I’d suggest ridding yourself of the self-persecution. You’re not the only one it’s hurting.”

She screamed and swiped at his face, only for her hand to cut through shadow.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tooth gasped, her eyes flying open.

“She ripped her face off?” she cried, dropping the tooth.

Bunny plucked it up nonchalantly. “She does that sometimes.”

Tooth touched her cheek empathetically. “She really hates herself, doesn’t she?”

Bunny sighed, tucking the teeth away in one of his leather pouches. “Yep.”

Tooth fluttered to the ground, wringing her hands.

“I wish…” she began, then stopped, swallowing hard. “I wish I could help.”

Bunny snorted, crossing his arms. “Grim’s not a charity case, Tooth. She’s had issues for a long time, and she’s been learning how to deal with them for just as long. Sometimes she gets crook and ends up a bit backward from where she was going, but we all do that sometimes.”

Tooth frowned. “Speak for yourself- I’ve never ripped my face off because of self-loathing before.”

“…Look, she’s not just a problem to be solved, okay?” Bunny emphasized. “She’s a person, same as you and me. If you really want to help her, try being her friend before telling her how to magically fix everything, m’kay?”

Tooth winced. “But she hates me.”

“Hey, not my problem, sheila. You work on that,” he gestured to the pocketed teeth, “and I’ll work on this. Be seeing you.”

He tapped his foot to the ground, and a tunnel opened up beneath Tooth. Her descent downward was sudden enough that she didn’t have time to scream before emerging outside of Tooth Palace.


	30. Mail

“You want me to what?”

North beamed at Grim, his wonder-blue eyes sparkling. “I want you to help me with Christmas presents!”

Grim laughed disbelievingly. “And what on earth makes you think I’m qualified for that?! I’m the Grim Reaper, Nikolai- Smert’s kosoy, remember? Ask Tasha-”

“He did,” the party in question broke in as she descended a flight of stairs with a tray of milk and cookies. “Your helping with the presents was actually my suggestion.”

Grim stared at her friend. “Why would you suggest that?!”

Tasha shrugged. “I thought it might be fun for you.”

Grim bit her lip. “I suppose…I’m not certain if that feeling would be shared by the poor children receiving my gifts, however.”

“Well, will not know unless you try!” boomed North, using one giant hand to half-lead, half-push the Reaper along. Grim glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Claus one last time and mouthed “help.”

Natasha chuckled and mouthed back. “You’re on your own.”

Grim sighed and turned her attention to the project North had led her to. She blinked.

“What is…” She glanced up at North, then back to the bench in front of her. “What is this?”

“Is jewelry-making station!” North proclaimed proudly. “Candy Cane mentioned you have talent for jewelry, yes?”

Grim smiled at North’s fond little nickname for his wife. “I don’t know if I’d call it a talent. I’ve made pendants before in my spare time.”

“You are having spare time now, yes? Go on, try!”

Grim laughed again, this time with some genuine amusement to the sound. “I’ll try my best, dear, but I can’t promise it’ll be worth giving away. Hopefully the results will at least be salvageable enough to reuse.”

North nearly knocked her over the desk with his hearty pat on her back. “Bah! Do not worry about that. Now, you make!”

Grim nodded as best she could whilst winded, reaching for some beads in a nearby container.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jack turned the snowflake charm over and over in his hand, marveling at the nigh invisible threads of metal connecting the dozens of tiny blue and white glass spheres.

“North, how’d you make this?” he asked, glancing up at his fellow Guardian.

“He didn’t,” Natasha answered for him. “That’s Grim’s work.”

“Grim?” Jack turned it over in his fingers again, squinting. Upon closer examination, he could see the metal was black like the chains looped around the Reaper’s neck.

“Yeah, mate, Grimace’s been flat out making these things,” Bunny remarked, holding up a pin in the shape of an egg. “She’s got one for everyone- North, Tasha, Tooth, Sandy-”

Jack blinked. “Tooth?”

“Tooth,” Bunny confirmed. “Dunno why, but Grim made her a bracelet. S’got a bunch of little charms on it that look like teeth.”

“Mine is like candy cane!” North cut in, showing off a brooch that was indeed reminiscent of the distinctively shaped peppermint sweet.

Tasha smiled, proudly displaying a barrette with two ruby-red beads set in it to resemble holly, complete with two emerald-colored bead leaves. Sandy floated up next to her and showed off a dreamcatcher decorated with nearly a hundred miniscule golden beads. Jack whistled.

“Hey, nice.”

“There are others,” North pointed out, indicating the pile of beaded wires on a nearby desk. “Will be presents for children.”

“Where’s Grimace now, anyway?” Bunny asked, pinning the bead egg to his bandolier.

“Is making delivery to rainbow girl.”

Sandy’s smile faded. Jack noticed, walking over to the little man and kneeling down to meet his gaze.

“Rainbow girl?”

(Gabby,) Sandy signed. (My girlfriend.)

“Your girlfriend? What happened to her?”

(Died. She got really sick, and…)

Sandy trailed off. Jack put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.”

(It’s okay.) Sandy smiled again, sadly. (I know she didn’t suffer, at least. She passed in her sleep.)

“Grim made something for her too?”

(Yeah, a little rainbow feather.)

Bunny frowned. “Really? I thought she was making something else for the sheila.”

Jack turned and squinted. “Something else? Like what?”

The Guardian of Hope shrugged. “I dunno. The last thing I saw her making wasn’t rainbow-colored, I know.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grim placed the rainbow-colored charm amongst the flowers on the grave.

“Hello, Bee,” she murmured. “I hope you like this.”

She turned and drew something else from a pocket in her robes- a black locket, with matching chain.

“And this is for you,” she remarked, handing it to the Boogeyman.

Pitch glanced at it before tucking it in his own pocket. “You know I’m not one for jewelry, darling.”

“Ah, but that’s not just any jewelry! I put a bit of my heart in it,” Grim explained cheerfully.

He snorted. “Just a bit? I’m not worth your whole heart, then?”

“Don’t be like that. I couldn’t fit my whole heart in there. Besides, it was difficult enough cutting out that small piece- I’m not about to hack out the whole thing.”

Seeing her companion’s disturbed expression, Grim burst into laughter. “Oh, darling, you should see your face! No, I didn’t actually put a piece of my heart in there. I did put a lock of my hair in, though.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Hair? Who puts hair in jewelry?”

“People who mourn.”

“A couple centuries ago, perhaps. And I’m hardly a mourner.”

“Well, you can throw the hair out if you like, but at least keep the locket.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Down in his lair, Pitch opened the locket with a _click_. There sat the lock of hair, tied with a bit of yellow ribbon.

He closed the locket and looped the chain around his neck, tucking the necklace away so that his robes hid any sign that he was wearing it at all.


	31. Road

“What are we doing, exactly?”

Grim was used to meeting up with Sandy in some odd places- one memorable picnicking spot had been located halfway up a cliff- but they’d never hung out in someone else’s house. They’d certainly never invaded a human’s domain, not while it was still populated. Yet here they were, at the end of some long, dusk-grayed road, standing at the window of a cottage that had a child still inside, lying quietly in bed.

Sandy nodded at the window and gestured for Grim to enter. She scoffed.

“Why? Did someone die in there?”

(Not yet.)

“Not y…oh.”

Sandy nodded.

Armed with this new information, Grim peered through the window at the blond-headed boy visible inside. Upon closer examination, Grim could see that the boy wasn’t lying totally quietly- his body was trembling, and she could see his nose wrinkle with each sniffle.

“So send him off to dreamland. Why bring me along on your errands?”

Sandy pointed to her. She sputtered, half-laughing and half-choking. “What? What am I supposed to do, sing him to sleep?!”

(Whatever works,) Sandy replied, shrugging.

“Brother, dear, I don’t think this child is going to want a lullaby from THE GRIM REAPER. I thought your aim was to give children sweet dreams, not nightmares!”

Sandy crossed his arms, and Grim sighed, knowing she’d lost the war before even waging a single battle. “Fine, fine. But don’t blame me for all the damage you’ll have to repair.”

(What are you going to do, break the window?!)

“Psychological damage, my dear brother. Psychological.”

Grim could’ve slipped through into the bedroom easily enough, but she decided to go around to the other side of the bedroom door instead. She checked around for any sign of parents or siblings, but all the other doors in the house were closed save for one that led to the bathroom, and the only light still on was a nightlight in the hallway.

She knocked, not too loudly. “May I come in?”

There was a rustling of blankets. “Mom?”

Despite not being given permission, Grim opened the door and slipped in, closing the entrance behind her. “Afraid not, my dear. Your mother’s asleep yet.”

The boy sat bolt upright, eyes wide as he took her in. Grim was suddenly very aware of how she must appear- a tall, gloomy specter with long black robes, a skeletal face, pointed teeth, hollow eyes. Perhaps she should’ve at least changed into something more casual first: it was a bit harder to be afraid of a ghoul when it was wearing a turtleneck.

“Are you a ghost?” the boy asked.

She smiled self-consciously, then remembered her teeth and stopped. “I suppose I am, sort of. I’m not going to haunt you or anything, though. This is a one-time visit.”

The child pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his chin and arms on his knees. “Okay.”

Grim rubbed her arm, biting her lip as she stood awkwardly. “Would you mind terribly if I sat down? I don’t want to keep looming over you.”

The little blonde nodded, and she sat down on the edge of his bed, extending a hand.

“I’m Grim. What’s your name, dear?”

The boy shook the proffered hand with less hesitation than she’d expected. “Jeremy.”

“Jeremy. A very nice name.”

Jeremy wrinkled his nose. “Not really. There’s two other Jeremys in my school.”

“Do you have a nickname? Nicknames are very helpful for differentiating.”

Jeremy frowned. “Diff…differ…”

“Differentiating, dear. Telling people or things apart.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a big word. I bet the other Jeremys don’t know it.”

“Well you can tell it to them when you go back to school.” Grim smiled again, mindful of her teeth. “Does your mother or your father usually drive you?”

“Dad does. I haven’t had to go to school for a while, though. Mom says I don’t have to until I get better.”

**_Oh dear._ **

Grim tried to keep her expression from betraying her distress. “I do hope you get better soon.”

Jeremy’s eyes grew sober. “I don’t know if I’m gonna.”

**_Oh no. Oh, no, no, no._ **

Grim bit her lip. “And what makes you think a thing like that, hm?”

Jeremy sighed, staring at his toes. “Sometimes I see Mom or Dad crying when I go to get a drink of water at night. Also, I’ve been sick for a really long time. It wasn’t this bad before, though.”

“And if you don’t?”

Grim hadn’t realized she was saying the words out loud until she heard them leave her lips.

Jeremy, to his credit, did not burst into tears. She might’ve preferred that to the resigned look on his face, however.

“My dad used to have a dog named Abby. I liked playing with her, but then she died and I couldn’t anymore.” Jeremy stared up at Grim, his brown eyes brimming. “I was really sad when she died. Are Mom and Dad gonna be sad when I die, too?”

Grim opened her mouth and found herself empty of words. She then swept forward and wrapped her arms around him, cradling him to her chest.

“Oh, darling,” she whispered. “Oh, darling. I’m so sorry.”

Jeremy, to her shock, returned her embrace.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m glad I got to see one of you, first.”

She pulled back slightly, brushing a lock of blond hair out of his face. “One of who, dear?”

The boy’s smile was bright as the rising sun. “A Guardian.”

The boy lay back down, eyes closing.

Grim tucked his blankets over his shoulders and rose, silent as the grave, before vanishing in a puff of black smoke.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sandy expected Grim to come out of the house and start shouting at him, or to try and slap him across the face. He hadn’t expected to have to go look for her. Fortunately, Jack had given him her latest address.

He found her sitting slumped on the couch, eyes fixed on her hands. He seated himself next to her and tapped her shoulder.

(What’s wrong?)

She didn’t look up to see what he’d said, but she seemed to catch the gist anyway.

“You could’ve appeared to him,” she whispered.

Sandy rested a hand on her back, waiting to be slapped away. Grim kept talking, making no acknowledgement of his gesture.

“Jeremy could’ve had a real Guardian appear to him. He could’ve had all five appear, if you’d tried,” she continued.

She turned to him, finally, and eyes were dry. For some reason, however, the burning rage he’d expected was absent.

“Why did you send me?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Sandy removed his hand from her back. (Jeremy…his father used to be a friend of ours, before he stopped believing. If we all visited Jeremy and his father remembered us, how do you think he’d feel?)

Grim nodded, twiddling her thumbs. “Well then. Glad to be of service.”

She stood up, preparing to leave, when she felt his hand on her back again. She turned, seeing her brother’s sorrowful face.

(And I thought…it might be nice…for him to be greeted by a familiar face. When he…)

Sandy burst into tears. Grim embraced him tightly, her mouth once again empty of any comfort.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jeremy sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. “Grim?”

Grim smiled. “Hello again, Jeremy.”

He yawned. “I thought you said you were only visiting once.”

“Well, it seems I lied. I hadn’t thought I’d be coming back so soon…how long has it been?”

(Not long enough)

Jeremy shrugged. “I dunno. So why’d you come back?”

She extended her hand. “It’s Christmas, dear. I thought I’d bring you a gift.”

Jeremy stared, transfixed by the golden sand swirling in her palm. “What’s that?”

“It’s a good dream, dear. Use it anytime you like, and you’ll have the best dream ever.”

Jeremy cupped his hands and held them out, catching the sand as it spilled. “Wow, thanks! I’m going to use it right now- I haven’t been sleeping great.”

“I’m glad you like it. Goodbye for good this time.”

Jeremy waved happily. “Bye!”

He sprinkled the sand on his head and collapsed back onto his bed, smiling contentedly.

Grim sighed and approached the boy, coaxing out his slumbering soul. It glowed golden, still dreaming sweetly.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy,” she whispered.

The soul vanished.


	32. Collection

Tooth fiddled with her new bracelet as she hovered anxiously.

“You’re sure this is the right address?” she asked Jack.

Frost nodded, taking in her tense expression. “You know, if you’ve changed your mind-”

“I haven’t. I just…” Tooth drew in a deep breath. “I feel like I got off on the wrong wing with her, long ago, and now I just can’t get on the same page with her no matter how hard I try.”

Jack grinned and shot her with two finger guns. “Then I’ll help break the ice.”

Tooth chuckled briefly, immediately falling silent as the apartment door opened.

Jack smiled winningly. “Hey, Grim! Nice slippers.”

The Reaper certainly didn’t look intimidating at the moment, Tooth had to admit. That might’ve been due to the fact that this was the first time the fairy had seen Grim dressed casually, in an oversized gray t-shirt and sweatpants as opposed to her flowing black robes or some other equally formal garb. Or maybe it was the bunny slippers.

Grim glanced down at her feet and blinked drowsily, rubbing her eyes. “Thank you. I sewed the buttons on myself, you know.”

On closer inspection, it was very evident that the green buttons serving as rabbit eyes for the slippers had been sewn on (rather clumsily) by hand, after whatever ornaments previously serving as eyes had been ripped out.

“Should’ve gotten Greasy to do it,” a voice commented from somewhere in the apartment.

Grim wrinkled her nose and called back into her quarters. “I’m perfectly capable of a simple stitch job, thank you very much!”

“Yeah? Tell that to your slippers.”

Grim crossed her arms petulantly as Bunny slipped through the door. “What’s wrong with my slippers?”

“They’re a proper shemozzle.”

“Yes, I did intend for them to look like you. Wonderful likeness, isn’t it?”

Bunny rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. Tooth, Jack, what do you two think?”

“Well…” Tooth began, running her thumb over the links in her bracelet.

Jack jumped in helpfully. “Oh, they look just like you. I was about to tell Grim, ‘You know who those remind me of? Bunny.’”

Grim giggled as Bunny mock-glared at the Guardian of Joy. “Thanks a lot, Frostbite.”

Jack saluted as Bunny tapped his foot and disappeared down one of his tunnels.

Tooth coughed. “So…did you and Bunny make up?”

Grim’s expression went from smiling to stony in a blink. “Excuse me?”

“Um…well, I don’t know the details, but I heard you had a fight? And you seemed like you were getting along just now…so…” Tooth gulped. “Uh…”

Jack noted the metaphorical storm clouds gathering and waved his hands hurriedly as if to dissipate them. “So did you two boink?”

Grim burst into laughter as Tooth let out a mortified squeak. “Jack!”

“Oh, verglas. No, we didn’t ‘do it like rabbits,’” Grim clarified, causing an increasingly flustered Tooth to blush a pink Jack hadn’t known was possible. “Pookie wanted to see what new artwork I’d made since I’d moved into the new place. He stayed for coffee and made omelets, along with those very unkind comments about my slippers which you heard.”

“Good to know. So now that you’ve booted out one guest, got room for two more?”

Grim opened the door wider. “I’ve always room for you, mon flocon de neige. And I suppose you can come in too,” she teased Tooth.

Tooth bobbed her head nervously before zipping in. Grim sighed exasperatedly as she watched the fairy, closing the door as Jack strolled inside.

“I hope you don’t mind me inviting her along. I know you two aren’t exactly besties,” Jack admitted sheepishly.

“Oh, I’ve nothing against Mordice, verglas. She’s spirited, commanding, charismatic…” Grim sighed again, enviously this time. “Beautiful…”

“Sounds like someone has a crush,” Jack joked.

Grim smirked and swatted his arm. “Well, you can’t find fault with a girl admiring someone with all the qualities she herself lacks.”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. Who’s more spirited than you? You’re collecting souls all the time.”

Grim attempted and failed to smother a smile. “You’re making it awfully difficult for me to wallow in my self-pity, darling.”

Jack tapped his staff on the floor, absentmindedly frosting patterns on the carpeting. “Just saying, you’re not exactly a wallflower yourself. Anyway, I think your pity party gave Tooth the wrong impression- she thinks you hate her.”

Grim frowned, staring down at her Bunny slippers. “It’s not just jealousy, darling. I’m jealous of Tosh’s good looks and popularity, but that doesn’t keep us from being friends.”

Jack leaned on the brightly-painted wall. “So what’s different about Tooth?”

Grim’s gaze moved to the fairy currently examining the various pictures coloring the apartment. “She pities me.”

Jack frowned, brow creasing. “Pities you?”

“Nothing can kill me, dearest, but pity is like poison. I won’t give it, and I refuse to take it,” the Reaper seethed. “I can see her sometimes, looking at me as if I’m some poor, pathetic monster, scrabbling in the shadows. And why shouldn’t she? She’s everything I’m not- everything I can never be- and she won’t ever understand what it is to be something like me.”

Grim blinked, raising her hand to her mouth as she took in Jack’s stunned expression. “Oh dear. I didn’t mean to say all that out loud, love: forgive me.”

Jack shook his head. “It’s fine, but- actually, no, none of that was fine. Tooth pitying you? She’s terrified of you! Every time you look at her, she thinks you’re going to rip her throat out!”

Grim folded her hands, distress creeping over her face. “But…I thought…”

“You were wrong,” Jack emphasized. “And I think you need to admit that to somebody.”

The Reaper followed his blue-eyed gaze to the fairy fluttering near the ceiling.

Tooth hadn’t realized Jack had left- she’d been too absorbed looking at the paintings. There were dozens of them, hundreds if you counted some of the smaller ones, a collection of faces and things and places forever captured in a single moment. One face in particular caught her attention.

It was a smaller portrait, tucked away in one of the corners of the ceiling. Tooth wouldn’t have even noticed save for two factors: one, it was much more detailed than many other similarly sized portraits. Two, it was a picture of _her_.

Tooth didn’t look in mirrors too often, but she suspected that if she did now, it couldn’t give her a clearer picture of herself than the portrait painted in the corner. Every feather was carefully lined, every color’s shade painstakingly selected. Tooth reached up, half-expecting the Tooth on the wall to lift a hand as well.

“Do you like it?”

Tooth shrieked and smacked into the wall. Grim blinked at her languidly from the ceiling beam where she was seated. “Please don’t damage it- I worked hard on that one, you know.”

Tooth scrambled to find words that she could speak around her heart, which had lodged itself firmly in her throat. “Uh-ah-agh-gah-”

Grim raised her hands placatingly. “I’m not mad, darling. I just wanted to clear some things up.”

“Things?” Tooth questioned, her pulse slowing down gradually.

Grim rubbed her brow, but true to her word, she didn’t appear angry. Instead, she looked regretful. Perhaps a little frustrated, but Tooth had the impression that the frustration wasn’t directed at the fairy, at least.

“I’ve always envied you,” the Reaper admitted. “Just in case that wasn’t clear. And maybe I- no, no, there’s no maybe about it.” She took a deep breath, folding her hands in her lap. “I’ve been unfair to you, Tooth. For that, and for everything else I’ve done to make you uncomfortable, I’d like to apologize. You needn’t accept it, I just needed to let you know.”

Tooth stared. “You…envy me?”

“Mind you don’t catch any flies with your mouth like that, darling. I’d hate for you to get a spot on your lovely teeth.”

Tooth closed her mouth, blushing. “Well…I mean…thank you, I think? But also, why are you jealous of me?”

Grim scoffed, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “As if you really have to ask. Look at yourself, dear. You command whole armies. You led an uprising and fought to the last, quite literally. Children adore you, your fellow Guardians admire you, and I’d be hard-pressed to think of one intelligent personage amongst our kind who doesn’t respect you. Oh, and in case I haven’t already mentioned this: you’re beautiful. What isn’t there to envy? …Are you quite all right? You’ve turned a rather flattering shade of scarlet.”

Tooth put a hand to her face, smiling awkwardly. “Yes, I’m fine. Um, wow. I didn’t…I never thought…”

Grim tilted her head. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Tooth chuckled. “Well, it’s just funny.”

The Reaper swept a lock of hair out of her face. “I fail to see what’s so amusing.”

The fairy flailed her hands expressively. “This! It’s just…you think I’m so great, and amazing, and beautiful…all this time I thought you hated me!”

Grim coughed demurely into her fist. “Yes, well, I didn’t do much to correct the misunderstanding, did I?”

“I guess not, but…you! You think I’m…and you’re jealous!”

“Yes…? We’ve established that fairly clearly by now, I believe.”

Tooth laughed, putting her hands to her sides. “Why?!”

“If you need me to list the reasons again, I can certainly-” Grim began, immediately silencing at a wave of Tooth’s hand.

“No, no, no, it’s not that. It’s just…you! The Grim Reaper! You’re all…sleek, and sharp, and intimidating, and…” The fairy laughed again, covering her forehead. “You think I’m beautiful.”

Grim shook her head. “I know so, darling. It’s a basic fact.”

“Well, so are you,” Tooth countered, gesturing to the Reaper. “Have you seen the way you move? All…smooth, and flowy?”

“Ha, there’s that word again. Frost used it to describe me too. In all fairness, I gained much of my gracefulness by imitating others.”

“Did you get your voice by copying other people too? Because it’s a gorgeous voice. You could probably smooth talk Cupid himself with that voice.”

Grim giggled. “Thank you. He’s not really my type, but I’ll keep that in mind. And this _is_ my natural voice- I do quite like it, though I don’t think it really goes with a face as ugly as mine.”

Tooth tilted her head. “You’re not ugly.”

Grim’s laugh this time was more like a bark. “Don’t pity me, darling. I hate being pitied.”

“I’m not!” Tooth protested. “You aren’t ugly. You have nice teeth!”

The Reaper lifted her hand to her mouth, parting her lips slightly as she tapped a nail against the perfect points of her teeth. “You think these are _nice_?”

“Yeah! They’re not like human teeth, obviously, but they’re clean and straight. Do you floss? You look like you floss.”

“Yes, I floss. I use the little floss picks- hide them around my apartment, and whenever I find one I think, ‘Oh, time to floss!’ and I floss.”

Tooth perked up. “Ooh, that’s a good idea! I’ll have to suggest that to Tasha sometime- she says North doesn’t really care for flossing much.”

Jack lifted his ear from the door and smiled as he headed away from the apartment.


	33. Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter I somehow forgot to post.

Grim crossed her arms skeptically. “I don’t know, dear- I’ve never been one for horseback riding.”

“They’re not horses, they’re Nightmares,” Pitch pointed out.

The odd couple were currently outdoors, under the cover of night sky as the Boogeyman attempted to convince the Reaper that Nightmares were far superior to any other steed.

“And how are mares of the night any different than mares of the day?” Grim pressed.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, ordinary horses can’t _fly_.”

Grim’s eyes sparked with longing at the word _fly_ , though she remained resistant to mounting any of the sleek black equine forms surrounding her. She paced indecisively, finally looking back over at Pitch, who was already astride one of the largest Nightmares. “Could I at least get a saddle?”

Pitch scoffed. “You can’t saddle a Nightmare. There’s no point to it anyway.”

“You mean it’s physically impossible to saddle them, or they won’t let you?”

Grim noted that Pitch ignored that last comment as he continued, “You can’t wallow in fear if you hope to ride a Nightmare. Even mild anxiety will make them restless.”

“Oh, that’s very reassuring. Thank you very much. Why are you giving me riding lessons anyway? Is this your idea of a late Christmas present?”

She didn’t see Pitch’s hand tighten slightly in the mane of his Nightmare. “Of a sort,” he replied dryly. “That, or an early New Year’s gift.”

“How magnanimous of you. I’d have preferred another bookmark, though- I keep losing the ones I buy for myself.”

He rolled his eyes. “And never the ones I give you?”

“Well, they’re gifts: I feel obligated to take better care of them,” she argued, making her way onto the back of the Nightmare nearest to her.

“Why do you need so many bookmarks?”

“Because I refuse to bend the corners of the pages to mark my place, heathen.”

Pitch shook his head. “How many places in a book do you need to mark?”

“Only one,” she admitted before sliding off the Nightmare’s back.

“Then you should only need one bookmark,” the Boogeyman stated as the Reaper fell to the ground.

Standing up and brushing off her robes, Grim made another valiant attempt to mount a Nightmare. “I read more than one book at a time, though,” she protested prior to taking another tumble.

“Even if you’ve lost every single one of your personally bought bookmarks, you should still have about fourteen,” Pitch calculated. “How many books are you reading?”

Grim paused before failing a third try at mounting. “Thirty-seven…?”

Pitch sighed, partly from exasperation and partly from frustration at the ridiculous fondness he felt creeping up on him. “You’re hopeless.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she announced the moment preceding her fourth consecutive fall.

Pitch hissed through his teeth and dismounted, plucking Grim up easily and setting her on the back of his Nightmare before re-mounting.

“Considering the display of balancing skill you’ve given thus far, I’d suggest you hold onto something,” he remarked to his passenger.

She obeyed, seizing his sides as the Nightmare galloped up into the sky.

Nightmares could creep and slink along the ground well enough, but in the air they did not linger. So it was that Pitch’s steed was darting through the dark of night with the Reaper showing impressive lung capacity, enough so that Pitch eventually glanced back at her irritatedly.

“Are you really so scared?” he snapped.

Grim quit straining her vocal cords and grinned at him cheekily. “No, I just like screaming.”

Pitch resisted the urge to roll his eyes again for fear of straining them. “I guessed as much.”

They landed a considerable distance from where they’d started. Having been distracted by the addition of a passenger (though more so by said passenger’s shrieking than anything else), Pitch hadn’t the slightest where they were, nor did he particularly care. However, Grim apparently had significantly more awareness of her surroundings than she did equestrian talent.

“Isn’t the Nest nearby here?” she asked.

He shrugged noncommittally. “Hoping to pay Q a visit?”

Grim slid off the Nightmare with her previously demonstrated grace- that is, she nearly tumbled head over heels off the steed and had to be caught. “I was actually thinking we could both go,” she mused as Pitch dismounted and helped her down.

The Boogeyman frowned. “And you think I’d be interested in such fraternizing because…?”

“Well, it’s been nearly half a millennium since you’ve seen him, hasn’t it?”

“And I was hoping to wait at least a half millennium more. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Grim shrugged. “Suit yourself, darling. Oh, and thank you for the ride- it’s been a while since I’ve been in the open air.” She smiled a bit sadly as she touched her back. “It means a lot.”

Pitch nodded absently, determinedly not staring at her undoubtedly aching shoulders. “You’re welcome.” He turned, then turned back. “If…should you like to improve your horseback riding…”

She laughed. “Thank you for the offer, though I’ll doubt I’ll be taking it up anytime soon. I’ll give Cueball your greetings, yes?”

Seeing him tilt his chin slightly in affirmation, Grim vanished, the smoke of her form mingling with the shadows cast in moonlight.

Pitch prepared to leave, but just as he had set a hand on his Nightmare, a dark form flitted past him. Not a shadow- he’d know if it was a shadow- but something he couldn’t quite see.

Glancing in what was presumably the direction of the Nest, Pitch wrinkled his nose as he remembered the sting of the arrow piercing his heart.

“Come to have another go?” he called to whom he assumed to be amorini lurking just out of view. “Perhaps you want to test out a lead tip this time.”

There was a musical chuckle. “Now why bother wasting arrows like that?” a voice purred. “The first one hit its mark just fine.”

Pitch winced, his hand automatically lifting to his chest. Before he could lower his arm, the Boogeyman was surrounded by wide, white wings that formed a feathered dome around him, cutting him off from any shadows, and any escape.

Pitch sneered. “Cupid.”

“Pitcher!” Cupid cooed affectionately. “I saw you on your charming little date with Reaper and I thought I’d ask how things went.”

The Nightmare King turned to face his kidnapper, scoffing as he did so. While Pitch had never quite understood how common perception of the winged archer had morphed into a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked baby, Cupid was far from intimidating at first sight- an olive-skinned boy, appearing hardly older than Frost, with messy hair hiding his eyes and a white nightgown.

“Well, I was considering getting down on one knee, but I haven’t gotten her brother’s blessing yet,” Pitch snarked. “Really, Q, if you’re so knowledgeable about love you ought to recognize when it isn’t there.”

“Oh, but it is there,” Cupid said smoothly, his lips parting to reveal rows of pointed teeth much like Grim’s. Pitch thought privately that the Reaper wore this particular feature far better than the seeming-boy in front of him- Grim was humanoid with no real attempt at a semblance of humanity. Cupid looked almost exactly like a human, up until you looked too closely. “You love her. You’ve loved her for quite a while now, haven’t you? Otherwise that arrow wouldn’t have lasted like this.”

Pitch hissed at the sudden sharp pain that lanced through his chest. “I’ve no intentions of bringing her chocolates and flowers.”

“Of course you don’t,” Cupid assured condescendingly. “But there’s other sides to love besides romance, isn’t there?”

The Boogeyman crumpled to the ground, clutching at his chest as the pain throbbed. Cupid laughed, the sound melodic and sugary and oh-so-cruel.

“The big bad Boogeyman, afraid to admit he’s in love! Now, there’s a delicious cliché- the bad boy with a soft spot,” Cupid commented. “I’ve always adored that trope. Better yet is denial: insisting again and again you don’t love her, not a bit, all the while falling deeper and deeper.”

Pitch stumbled to his feet, fingers digging into his skin. “I’m not in denial,” he spat. “I’m no hormone-driven twit. I love her, yes- a pragmatic love, a familial love. There’s nothing playful or selfless in it. She’s been my constant friend over eons: of course I’d have some positive feeling toward her.”

Cupid’s smile widened, and Pitch found himself mildly startled by the amount of teeth in it.

_Grim doesn’t have so many teeth, does she?_

“Pragma, storge, ludus, agape…I notice you didn’t rule out mania,” Cupid remarked helpfully.

Pitch grit his teeth. “Mania is obsession. Do you think she means so little to me that I would degrade her into some object to fawn over?”

Cupid laughed again. “Aren’t you vicious! Oh Pitcher, you should fall in love more often; it’s absolutely precious.”

The Nightmare King composed himself, forcing his expression blank. “Are you finished?”

The false-boy grinned wide, impossibly wide, and swept his bangs from his forehead. A dozen eyes blinked out from beneath the mess of hair. “One more, one more.”

Pitch resignedly gestured for him to continue. “Fine. Then you’ll let me on my way.”

Cupid circled behind him and pressed his lips to his ear.

“The sort of love I enjoy watching the most,” he whispered, “is the unrequited kind.”

Then Pitch was standing alone, with nothing to keep him company but his Nightmare and the unignorable ache in his heart.


	34. Electronic

Jack had never met the Leprechaun prior to entering Grogoch’s House, a bar whose patronage consisted entirely of folks from lore or fae, but he’d heard enough about him that the winter spirit had developed a mental image of him. Short, older-looking, red-haired with a bushy beard, old-fashioned jacket, buckle shoes, probably with a four-leaf clover somewhere on him.

So when Bunny introduced ‘Greasy’ as the Leprechaun, Jack did a bit of a double take.

“Not what you expected?” Greasy grinned.

Jack laughed. “Not exactly.”

Greasy wasn’t greasy, despite the nickname. He was short, but not nearly as short as Jack would’ve assumed; Jack guessed he’d probably be almost five feet if he stood up. He had well-groomed auburn hair and a ginger goatee, with a spray of freckles across his nose that gave him a youthful vibe. He wore an aviator’s jacket, and while his boots did have buckles, they looked a lot more punk than Jack had been expecting.

The Leprechaun noticed Jack staring and chuckled, putting one foot on the stool next to him. “Like my kicks? Made ‘em myself.”

Jack blinked, twirling his staff. “Really?”

Bunny nodded. “Greasy’s a shoemaker. It’s how he got the nickname: ‘gréasaí’ is the Gaelic word for ‘shoemaker.’”

Greasy put his foot down and pulled out the stool, patting it. “Take a seat, lad- c’mon, I don’t bite like Grimy does.”

Jack sat. “Grimy?”

“Grim,” Bunny elaborated, sitting down on the other side of the Leprechaun.

Jack shrugged. “I call her Flowy.”

Greasy snorted and took a swig of his beer. “‘Flowy?’ How’d you figure that?”

The Guardian of Fun gave his coworker a sideways smirk. “Same way you’d figure ‘Pookie,’ I guess.”

Bunny glared at the winter sprite as the Leprechaun roared with laughter.  
“I like ye already, Jackie boy,” Greasy remarked, giving ‘Jackie boy’ a hearty slap on the back.

Before Jack could recover the wind he’d had knocked out of him, there was a buzzing from the pocket of the aviator’s jacket. Greasy reached into his pocket and drew out a smartphone, answering it with a tap on the screen.

“Heyo, Greasy here. What can I do ya for?” he drawled.

After hearing something on the other end, the fairy smiled and pulled the phone away from his ear, tapping the screen again. “Alright, you’re on speaker now.”

Grim’s voice crackled out from the speaker. “How are my boys?”

Bunny squinted. “Where are you, Grimace? You’re coming through loud enough, but s’not exactly clear.”

There was a flare of static before she answered. “Sorry, dears, reception’s not great in the Nest. I keep telling Cueball that he needs to get a router.”

“I’ll tell him too. Can he hear us?” Greasy inquired.  
“Oh, Q’s actually not in at the moment, Grease. Some of his boys are, though- say hello to my boys, boys!”

There was another crackle of static, then a burst of sound as a few dozen voices shouted “Hello!” not quite in unison.

Jack rubbed his ear. “Hey, Bunny, can you fill me in on what’s going on?”

The lagomorph nodded, getting up from his barstool to keep from talking over Greasy. “Q’s our name for Cupid, and his boys are the amorini. Y’know the little winged ankle biters on the cards every year?”

Jack nodded. “Those are, like, cupids without a capital C, yeah? Kind of like Grim and the grims?”

“Sort of. They’re the amorini, though most of them aren’t actually in diapers. Oh, and Cupid’s a monster.”

Jack chuckled, tapping the end of his staff at the feet of his stool. “Oof. That annoying, huh?”

Bunny shook his head. “He’s a bit of a larrikin at times, but s’not his personality I’m talking about. Mate’s a literal monster. Pitch might be the Boogeyman, but Q is the one who’ll scare you out of your socks if you catch sight of him.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he absorbed this realization, then brightened again as he pointed to his feet. “I dunno about that, Cottontail: we both saw Pitch, and look! We’re sockless!”

Bunny glanced down at his own bare paws before smothering a chuckle. “That we are, I s’pose. I guess Pitch’s ugly mug must’ve put my hackles up more than I thought.”

“Are you being mean about my Boogey darling?” Grim interrupted, her voice slightly less fuzzy.

The Guardians glanced at each other.

“Yup,” Jack confirmed, snickering as he mouthed “Boogey darling?” at Bunny.

“Good,” huffed the Reaper. “He had the nerve to shoot Brother in the back and not say a thing about it to me! Slander him all you like, dears: later I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind.”

Greasy frowned slightly as he took another drink of beer. “Pitch did what, now?”

Jack looked over at the Leprechaun. “Well, at one point when we were fighting Pitch, he shot this arrow-”

Greasy held his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who’s ‘we?’ Why were you fighting Pitch?”

Jack raised an eyebrow at Bunny. “Doesn’t he know about the Guardians?”

“‘Course he does, Frostbite: we just haven’t caught him up on the last couple decades,” Bunny replied. “Alright, Elbow Grease, it all started when Jackie here got picked-”

“Should I hang up the phone? Grim’s probably heard this story before from both sides,” Greasy interjected.

“No, no, keep going! The boys over here haven’t heard it,” Grim encouraged.

“You might want to start with the black sand thing,” Jack suggested.

Bunny cleared his throat. “Okay, then. It all started when North…”


	35. Stitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post this. Whoops.

“…and that’s how Frostbite joined the Guardians,” Bunny finished.

Grim glanced up as the amorini around her applauded the tale. “Thank you for indulging the boys, Pookie. I should really hang up now- this call likely murdered my minutes.”

“Job Pitch in the face for me, won’t you, Grimace?” the Guardian of Hope requested.

The Reaper smiled indulgently. “Of course. Have fun, my darlings!”

Bunny, Jack, and Greasy all chorused a farewell as she hung up.

There was a stirring of feathers, and Grim turned to see Cupid lurking in the entrance of the Nest.

The Nest was a dome, a circular room built with sticks and twigs, stitched together with string and scraps. Its interior was lit by lanterns, which Grim would’ve thought unwise had she not been fairly certain that the golden lights inside the lanterns weren’t fire. The amorini milled around, reminding her of the bats with whom she’d once shared a cave. She caught glimpses of the different colors of wings- rusted red, sparrow brown, raven black, dove white. None were quite like Cupid’s, whose ivory wings held a subtle iridescent sheen. He grinned at her, with pointed teeth so very like her own, his multicolored curls falling over his eyes as they always did.

“Terribly rude of you, to tell me about my brother’s death and then fly off,” she remarked sharply, crossing her arms. “No words of comfort? No apologies for dropping such startling news?”

Cupid shrugged. “I hadn’t seen darling Pitcher for five centuries, sweetheart. You can forgive me for wanting to catch up, surely.”

Grim frowned primly. “Cueball, love, you could’ve told me _after_ your little rendezvous.”

Cupid slinked up to her, his grin unwavering. “Mm, perhaps. Could’ve built up the antici…”

He draped an arm over her shoulder, his lips nearly brushing her cheek.

“…pation,” he breathed, popping the p.

Grim rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her smirk. “ _Rocky Horror Picture Show_? Really?”

“I’ve been considering going as Frank N. Furter for Halloween,” he drawled, walking his fingers up her neck before poking her cheek. “ _Loved_ your Mrs. Lovett costume last year, by the by. A shame you couldn’t convince Pitchy dear to at least carry around a cleaver.”

“He was actually supposed to be the Babadook,” Grim confided, her head lolling back as she ran her fingers through the feathers of his wings.

“Ah. That explains the top hat, then.”

“It was the only piece of the costume I could get him to wear,” she confided, her smirk fading as she mulled over her discovery.

“How is it _you_ know of my brother’s death and not _me_?” she asked, her head snapping upright.

“Because unlike you, I keep up-to-date on our world’s politics,” Cupid answered, squishing her cheek gently before removing his arm from her shoulders. “Pitch’s little scuffle with the Guardian’s was a hot topic amongst the fae, you know.”

Grim scowled. “I had a first-hand account of that battle.”

“But your information was incomplete,” Cupid pointed out. “Pitcher likely didn’t want you to be put out with him, poor dear.”

The Reaper scoffed. “Poor dear? He’s the one who killed my brother!”

“Sandsy came back all right. The point is, darling, he was afraid of you being upset,” Cupid reiterated.

“Then perhaps he should have thought of that before _killing_ my _brother_ ,” Grim snarled before sweeping out of the Nest.

Cupid smiled resignedly and sighed, putting a hand to his chin. “Oh Pitcher, you’re really in for it now…”


	36. Ashes

Pitch heard the swish of Grim’s robes a second before he looked up and received a slap across the face.

Putting a hand to his stinging cheek, he looked down at her furious expression. “I’m sure I did something to deserve that, but I’d appreciate if you’d elaborate on what.”

“You killed my brother,” Grim hissed.

Pitch nodded comprehendingly. “Ah, yes. That.”

She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. “‘That,’ he says. ‘Ah, yes, that, is that all?’ You murdered my only family! Is ‘that’ all you have to say for yourself?”

Pitch’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “What am I supposed to say, ‘I’m sorry?’”

“Well ‘I’m sorry’ is at least better than ‘that!’”

“I’m not going to apologize insincerely,” he told her firmly. “You can’t expect me to feel remorse for finally ridding myself of an old enemy.”

Grim buried her fingers in her hair, clutching at her scalp as if aiming to tear it off. “I know he’s your nemesis, but he’s my brother! You could at least have the decency to tell me you killed him to my face.”

Pitch laughed humorlessly. “And how many millennia would’ve passed before you’d have spoken to me again, hm?”

The Reaper dropped her hands and turned away from him, crossing her arms. After several moments, she spoke. “Do you know who told me you’d killed him?”

“Cupid,” he surmised.

“That’s right, Cupid. And do you know where he learned that juicy little tidbit from?”

“Some gossipy fae. Is there a point to this?”

Grim whirled on him. “Yes, in fact. The point is, news of my brother’s death traveled around half of our world before ever reaching me. Do you know why that’s ridiculous?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem so out of the ordinary to me. You work enough in the wars- you’ve never cared to follow what goes on in them.”

“I had a first-hand source of information as to that battle, Boogeyman. Unfortunately, that source purposely left out information that he knew was pertinent to me.”

He said nothing, his eyes following her as she paced wildly, her voice cracking as she clutched at her heart.

“I don’t understand, Pitch. You must’ve known- you had to have known word would reach me eventually. Why-”

She stopped, so suddenly that she nearly tripped over her own feet. “He wouldn’t have come back.”

Pitch frowned. “Pardon?”

“He wouldn’t have come back,” she repeated, her volume rising. “If your plan had worked, you would’ve killed him for good. He never would have- I’d never have seen him again.”

Grim swiveled her head so that her eyes bore into his, her face blank.

Pitch felt the warmth in his heart spark, flare, burn until his insides felt like smoldering ash. “Grim-”

She lifted a hand, eyes hard. “Don’t. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.”

“In the end-”

“He’s not like us, Pitch!” she cried. “You and I, it doesn’t matter if people can’t see us, doesn’t matter if our powers are next to nothing, because we can’t die! He can! He can die, and he will!”

“But he wasn’t always like that,” Pitch pointed out. “He chose to be as he is.”

“Shut up,” she spat.

“In the end, he came back. Does it really matter n-”

She sprang at him, locked her arms around his neck, dragged his mouth down to meet hers. He felt her tongue force his lips apart, felt the prick of her teeth as she leaned in.

Next thing he was aware of was her pulling away, her chin dripping with wet black, and _pain pain pain_

She spat out a lump of flesh. He watched it hit the floor of the cavern, and recognized the shape of it as a tongue.

“I told you, I don’t want to hear it,” she snarled.

He gagged, spitting out the not-blood filling his mouth.

Grim sighed, running a hand through her hair. Pitch fixed his gaze on the white of her skin against her raven locks, and not on the hurt in her eyes.

“Don’t make me choose,” she rasped, and he realized she was about to cry, tears heating her eyes. “Don’t make me choose between you and them.”

He hacked up more not-blood and wiped his mouth, liquid streaking like ink on the back of his hand.

“Don’t make me choose,” she croaked, “because you know who I’ll choose.”

She vanished then, and he knelt, his head bowing over the spot where she’d stood.

 _The sort of love I enjoy watching the most is the unrequited kind_ , Cupid’s voice mocked, and Pitch winced at the memory.

_You’ll choose them. You’ll always choose them._

_Because you love them._

_You love them, and not…_

The Nightmare King put his forehead to the ground, and dug his nails into his chest as if that pain would distract him from the still-aching ashes of his burnt-out heart.


	37. Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some magical surgery in this that involves cutting a back open. Plus some blink-and-you'll-miss-it body horror right at the end.

Bunny twirled the knife restlessly in his paws, ears twitching as he finally caught a long-awaited sound.

“Took your sweet time there, didn’t ya?” he commented.

Grim smirked and tucked a sprig of herbs behind his ear. “Thought you might say that.”

Bunny took the thyme and sniffed it before noticing her watery eyes. “You okay there, Grimace?”

She sniffed and smiled, hiding her trembling fingers behind her back. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said, and knocked her to the ground.

Grim sat upright, her expression switching from frail to startled. “What-”

Bunny sat astride her lap, putting his full weight on her as he pressed the knife to her throat. Grim pulled away, and he leaned forward, the blade in his paw just shy of breaking thin white skin. The Reaper swallowed, struggling to speak.

“Pookie,” she gasped. “Pookie, you’re scaring me.”

As quickly as he’d pounced, he was standing again, brushing off his fur and offering her a paw to help her up. “Now we’re even.”

Grim sputtered and swatted his paw away. “What- Pookie, you can’t just do something like that and not explain!”

He glanced at her, eyebrow raised. “You were scared, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I told you so. Now-”

“Why? I couldn’t exactly have killed you.”

“Well, no, but it was still a shock.”

“Friends shouldn’t be scared of friends, Grimace,” he told her.

“No, but in the moment I was still…in the moment…I was…still…”

Eyes widening in realization, she stared up at Bunny as he smirked.

“Get it now?” he questioned teasingly.

She sighed and got up. “Yes, yes, you’ve made your point. I was an idiot, That Incident was just a mistake, and you being alarmed wasn’t a sign of some deeper underlying issue with our friendship. That’s not all you called me down here for, I hope?”

Bunny shook his head, still grinning. “Nope. Got you down here to give you your Christmas present.”

Grim clapped her hands. “Ooh, my Christmas present! Is it socks? Are they argyle?”

Bunny gave a very un-rabbit-like bark of laughter. “No, but hopefully you’ll like this at least as much. You mind closing your eyes?”

“As long as you don’t spin me around,” she answered as her eyelids flickered shut.

Bunny bit his lip and reached into one of the pouches on his bandolier, drawing out two identical pointed teeth.

“You trust me, yeah?” he asked, walking around her so that he was facing her back.

“I’m not peeking. That qualifies as trust enough for whatever you’re about to do, I hope.”

Bunny parted the back of her robes, eyes running over the scars between her shoulders. Gritting his teeth, he raised the knife and stabbed.

Black not-blood streamed from the reopened wound- not as much as he’d expected, but enough to make him a touch nervous. Drawing in a deep breath, he dragged the knife down along the path of the scar.

Grim gasped lightly when he’d finished with the first scar, causing him to flinch. She didn’t turn, but her voice was shaky as she spoke.

“And here I thought you’d wanted to close old wounds, not reopen them,” she joked.

Bunny steadied himself and plunged the knife into the second scar.

It went quicker the second time, thankfully. When he pulled the blade out, he wiped it clean of black on the grass and set it aside, opening his other hand, the one holding the teeth. Cautiously, he set one of the teeth in the middle of the first scar, noticing how Grim forced herself not to flinch as she did so.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A tooth. Now, focus on your memories of flying.”

She laughed uncertainly. “Alright…if you weren’t convinced of my trust before, you had better be now.”

He nodded, despite her closed eyes, and set the other tooth in the second scar. Gently, he placed a paw on each wound.

Grim stood there a while, scars leaking, hands trembling, breathing wavering between steady and hyperventilating.

“Is this why Tooth asked me for some teeth a while ago?” she remarked suddenly, her voice breaking at the end of the question.

“Yeah,” Bunny admitted quietly, pressing more firmly on the scars.

She laughed again, this time with an actual hint of humor to the sound. “So that’s why she talked to me out of the blue. You didn’t want to give away the surprise, did you? That’s sweet.”

Bunny moved his paws from the wounds, quickly grasping her waist instead. “Alright, you’re going to want to put your weight on me now.”

“Is there a particular rea- oh.”

Grim crumpled, falling slightly backwards as Bunny supported her. She opened her eyes, looking up at him, and smiled weakly. “I’m dizzy all of a sudden. Think I’m falling for you,” she teased, before blanching and clutching at his waist behind her. “And just plain falling. Oh dear- my head’s spinning. I don’t…I’m going to stop talking now.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, setting her down gently so the Reaper was seated on soft grass.

She winced, sneaking a look at her back prior to looking up at Bunny. “So…wing regeneration?”

“That’s the plan,” he confirmed. “Memories plus rebirth hopefully equals a second chance for you to fly again.”

Grim smiled affectionately even as another wave of pain coursed through her. “That’s so sweet of you. I already said that, didn’t I? Oh, my head. Why does my head hurt? It’s my back that’s slashed open.”

Bunny nearly placed a comforting paw on her back before seeing the black bones poking out of the wounds. “Strewth,” he breathed.

“Is that a good ‘strewth’ or a bad ‘strewth?’ What does ‘strewth’ even mean, again? I-ah…agh…” Grim doubled over, her face tight with pain. “Urk…is this ‘strewth,’ ha…ugh…”

Bunny frowned, his brow creasing as he watched her shake. “Grimace?”

Her breathing quickened, and kept quickening, faster and faster. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but choked instead, crumpling onto her side as she sprawled out on the ground.

Bunny scooped her up immediately, adjusting his grip so he could see her back. The bones had extended into a tangle of withered muscle, broken flesh, and feathers. “Grim!”

She stared up at him, eyes wild, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her mouth gaped as she reached for the words evading her.

Bunny clutched her close. “Don’t worry Grimace, I got you. Hold on, okay?”

He tapped his foot, and the Easter Bunny and the Grim Reaper disappeared down a tunnel.


	38. Hope vs. Optimism

Jack liked spending time inside the North Pole- it was definitely a nice change of pace from getting kicked out repeatedly- but once in a while he needed to step outside from the workshop, get away from all the noise and activity inside. It was great being surrounded by people who could see him, but it did become overwhelming after a while.

Jack was used to standing alone in the ice and snow. That meant he was very aware whenever he _wasn’t_ alone anymore.

He didn’t see or hear the tunnel open up, but somehow Jack knew it was there. He flew towards it, this disturbance in his solitude, and saw Bunny emerge from the snow with the Reaper in his arms.

Grim was always pale, but now she looked sickly. Her thin white skin was papery, and her breathing was as fast as it was shallow. Jack glimpsed her back, caught a sight of where her scars had been. The scars were gone, replaced by bones jutting out at odd angles from raw flesh, threads of wet black tangled over her spine, broken feathers clinging to the mess with weird hooked shafts half-hanging out.

“Bunny, what-”

The Guardian of Hope cut him off. “No time. Get her to Tasha now. Now!”

Jack snatched up Grim, the back of his mind startled at how heavy she was despite her frail frame, and darting off, the wind half-carrying him until he reached the door of the workshop.

The next events were a blur- the activity in the Pole ground to a halt, then started up again, voices shouting, people running- a yeti took Grim from Jack’s arms, saying something he couldn’t understand- Natasha was on the stairs, beckoning, as North cleared a path- Grim was being taken up the stairs-

Jack collapsed onto a nearby bench as Grim disappeared into Natasha’s room, too distracted to immediately be aware of a winded Bunny sitting next to him. When the information eventually made its way to his brain, Jack looked over at the stressed rabbit with questioning eyes.

“What happened?” he asked.

Bunny held up a paw. A yeti came over to them, offering blankets and cups of amber liquid. Jack opened his arms to receive the supplies, draping one blanket over Bunny’s shoulders and taking a sip from a cup (the contents making his stomach burn) before passing the other to his fellow Guardian. Bunny lifted it to his lips and gulped until it was empty.

Wiping his mouth, Bunny huddled into himself, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “I made a mistake,” he muttered, his eyes fixed to the ground.

Jack put the other blanket on Bunny’s lap, careful not to touch him. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I just…I thought…”

Bunny drew in a shaky breath. “Things went wrong. Don’t know what happened to Grim. I don’t…I didn’t think…”

He trailed off, his paws clenching tight. Jack cautiously placed a comforting hand on his back.

“It’s okay,” he said automatically.

Bunny finally met his gaze, his green eyes like shattered glass.

“No. No, it’s not.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tasha sat down next to the bed, placing her hands on Grim’s shoulders. “It’s going to be fine, Smerts,” she reassured her as her hands began to glow, a soft golden light illuminating the Reaper’s white back. “You’ll be alright.”

Grim’s only answer was a shuddering sigh and a twitch.

Biting her lip, Tasha turned to the elves watching her.

“Jingle,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

One of the elves pointed to himself, his vacant stare turning more attentive.

“Go to North. Tell him to call for the others,” she commanded.

The elf trotted off obediently. She looked to the others, her tone turning crisp. “The rest of you, make yourselves useful. Don’t crowd the room.”

The other elves toddled out. As the last of them closed the door behind himself, Tasha slumped in her chair and let out the breath she’d been holding.

“Oh, Riri,” she whispered, her throat tight.

Grim stirred, her breathing slowly evening.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tooth flew down through the open space in the Pole’s roof, glancing back up at the sky as she did so. “What is it, North? What happened?”

“It is Grim,” North explained. “Bunny’s gift-”

Tooth’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh no. Oh no, no, no…”

Her voice thinned to an anxious mumble as Sandy sailed into the workshop on a cloud of dreamsand.

North frowned, stroking his beard restlessly. “Sandy, Grim-”

Sandy’s expression went from mildly curious to startled to stern. He flew up to North, signing furiously.

(Where is my sister?)

“She is not well. She-”

(Where. Is. She.) the Sandman repeated, his eyes hardening.

North pointed up to Natasha’s room, and Sandy was through the door in a blink.

Jack took another small sip of what he was guessing was brandy. “Didn’t know Sandster could move that fast,” he joked weakly.

Bunny smiled dully. “Didn’t know I could mess up this badly. Thought you were the cause of all the trouble around here.”

Jack punched him in the arm lightly, trying for a lighthearted grin. “You calling me a troublemaker, Cottontail?”

Bunny’s smile vanished, and he bowed his head. “North looks worried.”

Jack glanced down at his toes and realized he was beginning to freeze over the floorboards, picking his bare feet up off of the ground to prevent turning the workshop into an ice rink. “It can’t be that bad, can it? I mean, it’s not like she’s gonna die.”

Bunny clutched the blanket so tightly that Jack could see the hem beginning to rip. “No, she won’t die. She can’t. Her pain could get worse and worse, and she’d be able to feel every second of it. Or she could just fall into a coma, suffer until she wakes up, if she wakes up.”

Jack raised his hands pleadingly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Aren’t you the Guardian of Hope? Let’s have some optimism, here.”

Bunny’s laugh sounded painful. “Hope and optimism ain’t the same thing, mate. Optimism is seeing the best- hope is wanting the best despite the fact the best probably isn’t happening.”

Jack rolled his staff in his fingers, watching Sandy float out from Natasha’s room dejectedly.

“We can still hope though, right?”

Bunny looked up, eyes watery, and nodded. “Yeah, Frostbite. We can always hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof  
> Ngl this one hurt a little bit to write  
> My sister told me to be nicer to my readers. Sorry guys ^.^'


	39. Hiccups

Tooth hesitated, lifting her hand to knock, then stopping herself, hovering in front of the door. It was cracked open, just slightly, and she peeked inside.

Grim lay on the bed, her back to the entrance, and Tooth had full view of where the scars had been.

_It was supposed to be a gift._

_I’m didn’t know._

_I’m sorry._

Tooth covered her mouth, chest tightening, and she began to back away.

The Reaper stirred, and a weak voice issued from the bed.

“You can come in. It’s not contagious.”

Caught, Tooth sheepishly slipped inside, closing the door behind her.

“Hi Grim,” she croaked.

“Hello there, Tooth darling. How are you? I’m in incredible pain, but let’s not dwell on that. Would you mind coming over here? Feeling too lazy to turn over right now, I’m afraid.”

Tooth obediently circled around to the other side of the bed. Grim smiled up at her with tired eyes, her expression fairly relaxed, with nary a hint of anger or accusation. Somehow that only made the fairy feel worse.

“It was a very nice thing you and Pookie tried to do for me, you know. I’m sorry it didn’t turn out.”

Tooth gripped the back of her neck nervously. “I’m sorr-”

“Ah-ah-ah! No apologies,” Grim reprimanded. “I’ve already apologized. You’re not allowed to feel guilty. Pass that on to Pookie, will you? No guilt allowed. If you let this eat you up I’ll send Tosh after you with bear hugs.”

Tooth smiled in spite of herself. “Tasha? Not North?”

“Believe me, dear. North’s hugs might wind you for a bit, but Tosh’s can break your spine. Mine are not empty threats.”

Tooth began to laugh tremblingly, wiping her eyes. “How can you say that?”

“Because I’ve been hugged by both of them, and by my comparison-”

“How can you tell me not to feel guilty?” Tooth cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “H-how can you lay there like that and not blame either of us for any of this? We did this to you!”

Grim jolted upwards briefly before wincing and collapsing back onto her side. “Don’t you dare blame Pookie for this, darling. Don’t blame yourself, either. You were trying to do something nice.”

“And instead we d-did something hor-hor-horrible!” Tooth stammered between sobs, wrapping her arms around herself. “We…your b-back…”

“Please stop crying, sweetheart,” Grim requested dryly. “You’re going to give yourself hiccups.”

Tooth sniffled and cleared her eyes of tears. “I-I just don’t understand. You were so angry before.”

Grim shifted, rolling onto her stomach while keeping eye contact with Tooth. “Before?”

“At me. At Bunny,” she elaborated. “You were so angry, and that was when you didn’t have a reason. Now it’s like you don’t care. I just…I don’t understand.”

Grim snorted. “Of course I care, darling. I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“That you two did this for me,” Grim answered, indicating her would-be wings. “It didn’t turn out as you’d planned, but when does life ever? Every person I’ve ever cared about, that’s ever cared for me, they’ve all hurt me in one way or another. It wasn’t their fault- it’s just part of being kind, of loving. You can’t share a heart without it getting broken, love.”

Tooth clasped her hands. “Th-that’s- _hic_ \- that’s so- _hic_ \- that’s b-b-beau _hic_ -”

“Oh, dear. You’ve gone and done it now, Tooth- you’ve given yourself hiccups with all that crying. Didn’t I tell you so?”

The fairy laughed amidst her hiccups, and Grim smiled, the pain fading from her face for the briefest moment.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bunny entered the room quietly. Sandy waved at him from his seat at his sister’s bedside. (She’s sleeping now.)

“Okay,” he whispered. “My turn for night watch, yeah? You go and spin your dreams.”

Sandy nodded and drifted to the door. (Tasha’s downstairs if you need anything,) he signed before slipping outside.

Bunny sat in the chair and sighed, hiding his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Grimace,” he murmured.

“Oh, shut it, Pookie. S’not your fault.”

Bunny blinked, lowering his hands incredulously. “When did you wake up?”

“When I heard a certain púca whinging about his nonexistent wrongdoing. Don’t go moaning about your sins, darling- it’s the equivalent of the chaplain giving confession to the prisoner.”

Bunny squinted. “Wot?”

“You know, it’s…a thing…because…choir…don’t ask me to explain my logic, love, I’m half-asleep and my back aches. Look, point is, don’t blame yourself. I’ll send Tosh after you with hugs. Okay? Okay.”

Grim closed her eyes. Bunny stared at her bemusedly for a moment before chuckling and kissing her forehead.

“Alright, Grimace,” he said softly, pulling her blankets up to cover her front. “Whatever you say.”

Grim opened one eye. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep, you bloody menace.”

“Can’t be a bloody menace. Don’t have any blood.”

He yanked the top blanket over her head. “Good night, you little-”

“Nice words! Nice words! I’m convalescing, for goodness’ sake.”

Bunny sighed. “And you say _I’m_ the incorrigible one.”

She peeked out from the blanket and grinned. “Love you too, darling.”


	40. Apology

Grim smiled, her eyes still closed. “Awfully rude of you to come in without knocking.”

Pitch emerged from the shadows on the opposite wall, his golden-eyed gaze burning into her. (And since when am I known for my manners?) he signed, his fluid movements more staggered, more sharp than usual.

“Fair point,” Grim replied, stretching slightly as she craned her neck to look up at the Boogeyman. “Feeling less murderous today, I hope?”

He said nothing, circling her until she couldn’t see him. She frowned.

“Now darling, it’s poor sport to scare someone in poor health,” she scolded.

She flinched as she felt a hand brush aside her hair.

“Sweetheart…what are you doing?” she asked, tensing as a finger traced down her spine.

Suddenly he was in front of her again, and her eyes fixed on the quick, almost jerky movements of his hands.

(I’m sorry.)

She opened her mouth, but he put a finger to her lips. She scraped her teeth over the pad of his finger and glared up at him warningly. “Don’t make me bite your hands off as well, darling.”

He yanked his hand away from her face. (I’m not sorry for killing him.)

“I’m shocked.”

(But I am sorry for hurting you,) he finished.

Her eyes widened, and she drew her head back slightly as she appraised him.

“Sorry for hurting me?” She scoffed. “And why should you be sorry for that?”

He scowled. (Don’t ask questions you know the answers to.)

“I won’t then. Why are you sorry for hurting me?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. His shoulders dropped, just slightly.

(You really don’t know.)

“No, I don’t. That’s why I asked you, silly.”

His scowl deepened, then vanished. He let out a breath, and she glimpsed the still-healing stump of his tongue. (Because I care about you.)

He expected her to laugh, or roll her eyes, or mock him somehow. He hadn’t expected her to sit up, her eyes sharpening. “Care about me?”

His fingers twitched.

_I love you_

He nodded. (Yes.)

She frowned, her gaze softening. She shifted to the side of the bed, patting the space she’d opened up. “Here. Lie down with me.”

He did so, lying on his back as she slid down onto her side.

“You know why I said I’d choose them over you?”

Pitch inhaled through his nose. (Because you love them.)

“I do love them, same as you.”

He stopped breathing. Grim didn’t notice, continuing to talk as if she hadn’t just dropped life-changing information.

“The reason I’d choose them over you is because I’ll always have you. I’m going to lose them no matter what, so if I had to choose, I’d choose them. Not because I love you any less, but because I know one day they’ll be gone, and you won’t.”

He turned his head to meet her eyes. (You’ve never told me you loved me.)

She blinked. “I thought it was implied.”

(That’s the sort of thing worth saying to someone’s face,) he remarked.

_Hypocrite_

“All right then.”

She pulled him close and kissed his nose before putting her mouth to his ear.

“I love you,” she whispered.

With her face pressed to his jaw, he doubted she would fail to notice him smiling. He smiled anyway.

Behind her, the door opened.

Grim glanced over her shoulder. “Hello, brother. I’m still alive, in case you were wondering.”

Sandy circled to the other side of the bed, taking a seat in the chair. (Something wrong with this side of the bed?)

“Not particularly. I just want to stay on one side so that if I get too warm I can flip onto the other side,” she explained.

(So you’re a pancake now.)

“Excuse me! You’re just assuming I’m a pancake? I could be a grilled cheese sandwich!”

Sandy shrugged. (But you’re a pancake.)

“Yes, I’m a pancake. A sleepy pancake. A…” She yawned. “…a sleepy pancake with…blanket syrup…”

Her eyes flickered shut.

Quiet as a ghost, the Sandman drifted from his chair back to the room’s entrance. Just as he was about to exit, he turned and grinned at the shadows on the opposite wall.

(I’ll tell the others not to disturb her for now.)

The Guardian of Dreams slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Pitch slinked out of the shadows and lay back down next to Grim.

“Did you get caught?” she asked with eyes still closed.

Pitch pressed his hands into hers as he signed. (Yes. They’re sending up a mob with torches and pitchforks as we speak.)

She snorted. “Should’ve hidden under the bed.”

Pitch smiled and curled closer to her.


	41. Haircut

Grim woke to find loose strands of hair strewn over her pillow.

She sighed. “Again?”

Tasha bustled into the room, bearing a tray and a worried frown. “Smerts? Everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine. More of my hair has decided to relocate from my scalp though. Do you think you could get me another trash bag?”

Tasha placed the tray on Grim’s lap and pressed the back of her hand to the Reaper’s forehead, then gently gripped her shoulders and turned her in order to critically examine Grim’s back. “They’re healing up well. I wouldn’t suggest trying to remove them for another couple weeks yet.”

“Oh, I’m not planning on removing them,” Grim remarked brightly.

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Really? They won’t bother you?”

Grim stretched out one of the ‘wings’ to its full length. Mrs. Claus stepped back, startled at its reach- it nearly touched the far wall. “No, actually. Without the feathers and all that fuss they’re not nearly as bulky as the old models. And while I certainly won’t be flying with these, I imagine I can find other uses for them. Look!”

Grim held up the other wing, and Tasha gasped, seeing the scythe blade set in the crook of the bone. “Smert’s kosoy!”

“It’s very aesthetic, don’t you think?” the Reaper commented, admiring the glint of the blade against the black of her bones.

“They’re still healing, Grim! Take that out!” Natasha scolded her.

Grim shrugged and obeyed. “I’ll try that again later, then. Oh! May I go out for a bit?”

Mrs. Claus set her hands on her hips. “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve eaten. Where do you want to go, anyway?”

Grim picked up a slice of toast from the plate on the tray in her lap and took a bite. “Just a quick visit to a friend,” she answered, one cheek puffed with food like a chipmunk’s. “Greasy’s not just a shoemaker and a tailor, you know- he’s branched out into hairdressing the last few decades too. And with my hair falling out willy-nilly, I figure I might as well try out a new style.”

Natasha smiled. “All right then. I’ll take you in the sleigh once you’ve finished your toast.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jack frowned at the Easter Bunny. “You sure about this?”

“She’ll love it,” the rabbit assured him. “Especially the shoes.”

“Really? Because this feels more like you getting back at me for the Blizzard of ‘68. Ouch!”

The last exclamation was directed at the Leprechaun, who glared up at the Guardian of Joy with exasperation as he plucked another pin from between his teeth. “Hold still, Jackie boy. I wouldn’t stick you if you weren’t squirming like a grogoch in a bathtub.”

Jack wrinkled his nose. “You’re sure this was Grim’s idea and not yours, Cottontail?”

Bunny scoffed. “You think my idea of revenge is getting you a new suit?”

“Hey, you’re not the one who has to stand still while getting stuck with pins, is all I’m saying. Ow!”

Greasy grunted and pulled out another pin. “That’s because he’s already been fitted, lad. Poor Pookie’s had to go through this a couple o’ times.”

Jack laughed incredulously. “Wait, what? Really?”

Bunny nodded wearily. “Ruined my first suit in a fight with some revenants.”

“That was a party to remember,” Greasy chimed in.

The rabbit crossed his arms and bowed his head. “Grim made me get a new one. I think I got more wounds getting stabbed by Greaseball there then I did fighting the undead. Ow! Hey!”

The Leprechaun grinned as he jabbed Bunny again. “Whoops, my hand slipped.”

Bunny glared at him. “Alright you bloody-”

“Are you boys playing nice?” Grim inquired as she swept into the room.

Jack chuckled. “Getting along like a house on fire, Flowy.”

“Hm. Just as long as you don’t commit arson. Now, how’s the suit coming along, dearest?” she addressed Greasy.

“Be getting along faster if he weren’t squirming like a fish out of water,” the tailor replied, squinting at his model as Jack stuck out his tongue.

Grim frowned and glanced pointedly at Jack. “This is for Tosh, verglas. North will tie you up for this if necessary.”

“Will he shove me in a sack and throw me in a magic portal before or after?”

Grim smirked before turning her attention to Bunny. “You have your suit?”

“Yeah. Still don’t know why I can’t be the one with the watch,” he groused.

“Don’t think of it as losing a role- think of it as me blackmailing Pitch into doing something he really doesn’t want to do,” she coaxed.

Bunny considered this and grinned. “Okay, that helps.”

“Still think you and Boogeyboy should’ve been the twins,” Greasy told her, making some final measurements.

“That’s not until the second book, darling. Anyway, I’d have never convinced him. Blackmail can only accomplish so much, darling.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at her as he removed his pinned-together jacket. “What do you have on him anyway? What could the Boogeyman be ashamed of? You got an embarrassing video of him or something?”

Grim put a finger to her lips. “There’s no point in blackmail if you can’t keep a secret, mon flocon de neige. If he doesn’t hold up his end of the deal, I’ll spill the tea.”

“I think you mean the beans,” Bunny objected.

“Nah, she means the tea. Slay, queen!”

Grim laughed at the Leprechaun’s and Easter Bunny’s bemused expressions. “Wig? Snatched.”

“Hotel? Trivago.”

The Reaper ran her fingers through her hair absentmindedly. “By the by, Grease, would you mind giving me a trim? I told Tosh I was coming out for a haircut.”

Greasy shrugged, pulling out a set of golden shears. “Fine by me. Can you tell me what all that was about?”

“I’ll do it,” Jack volunteered, pulling out a phone. “Okay, so Urban Dictionary says…”


	42. Penultimate

Natasha tapped her fingers impatiently as she waited outside of Greasy’s shop.

“How long does a haircut take?” she murmured, glancing at one of the sleigh’s dials.

“With hair as long as yours, I suppose you wouldn’t know.”

Natasha jumped, nearly falling out of the sleigh as she took note of her unannounced passenger. “Pitch!”

“Mrs. Claus,” the Boogeyman returned coolly. “Love to stay and chat, but I’m a bit late for something. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

With a quick movement of his hand, Pitch yanked the reins out of Natasha’s grasp. Before she could cry out, he snapped them sharply, causing the reindeer to rear up and run off.

Natasha snarled, drawing a short dagger. “Pitch…!”

He vanished.

Tasha leapt neatly down from the sleigh, eyes flashing as she looked about for a sign of the Nightmare King. Spotting a darker shadow flitting towards an alley nearby, she gave chase, rounding the corner to find Pitch standing with his back to her as he examined something in his hand.

“What was that about?” she spat, clenching the fist that wasn’t grasping a blade.

He turned to look at her, and she saw what he had in his hand- a golden pocket watch.

As her face registered her confusion, Pitch smirked at her. “Something curious, Mrs. Claus?”

Tasha heard footsteps behind her, but before she could speak, a tunnel opened up underneath her.

As the tunnel closed, muffling Mrs. Claus’s surprised shout, Bunny hopped forward and frowned, taking in the sight of Pitch’s usual robe next to his own brightly-colored suit.

“How come he only had to carry the bloody watch?!” he complained, pointing at the Boogeyman accusatorily.

Grim appeared next to Pitch, rolling her eyes as she crossed her arms. “Because however much you fuss about this, you’ll never compare to the King of Temper Tantrums.”

Pitch glared at her before directing his scowl towards Bunny. “I set boundaries, unlike you, _rabbit_. I can’t comprehend how someone with your ego ever agreed to wear that abomination.”

The Reaper elbowed her companion. “Oh, hush. I think you look marvelous, Pookie. And _Mr. Black_ , if you want me to hold up my end of our little agreement, you’ll apologize to him right now before he leaves for the party.”

Seeing her pull out her phone, Pitch grit his teeth and stared at Bunny with daggers in his eyes.

“Deepest apologies,” he growled.

Bunny whistled. “Must be some dirt you got on him there, Grim.”

Grim smiled at her phone screen. “It is, quite. Now, rabbit, you aren’t playing the part of White, so I’d suggest you get a move on before you’re late.”

Bunny saluted and tapped his foot, reopening the tunnel and jumping in.

As the tunnel closed again, Pitch glanced over at the picture on Grim’s phone screen.

“Now delete it,” he demanded.

Grim smiled fondly at the photo she’d taken of Pitch sleeping next to her in Tasha’s room. “Yes, yes. Just give me a moment to commit it to memory.”

“We had a deal, Reaper.”

“You’re quite cuddly when you’re sleeping, you know? Look how you’re holding me; it’s like I’m a teddy bear or some such. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? No? Perhaps a body pillow?”

Pitch leaned closer, his teeth showing clearly with each word he spoke. “Delete the picture, Grim.”

Grim sighed and obeyed. “Fine, fine. Such a shame- it was a very nice selfie. I don’t take selfies often, you know.”

Pitch scoffed. “I’m not posing for a replacement.”

“Wasn’t going to ask you to, darling. Now, I’m off to the party. You’re still invited if you happen to change your mind, White Rabbit, even if you won’t wear the ears.”

Pitch side-eyed Grim’s freshly trimmed locks. “By the by, a nice haircut you have there, Cheshire. Very modern. Really shows off your whiskers.”

Grim smiled and adjusted her cat-ears headband. “Thank you, dear. Pookie did the face paint.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tasha tumbled out of the tunnel onto the workshop floor. She straightened almost immediately, scanning her surroundings bemusedly. “What…”

The workshop had been decorated with pink plastic flamingoes, toy hedgehogs, and a copious amount of roses. Buckets of red paint were scattered about with croquet mallets, and one especially grumpy-looking elf was standing next to a collection of pepper shakers, wearing a chef’s hat and stirring a cauldron of soup.

“SURPRISE!”

She nearly fell back onto the floor as the Guardians swarmed her.

“Happy Birthday, my love!” North boomed, sweeping her up into a bone-crushing hug.

“Happy late birthday,” Jack added sheepishly, straightening his cartoonishly proportioned hat. “Obviously Christmas was a little busy for a celebration-”

“-so we decided to throw you a surprise party!” Tooth chirped.

Bunny loosened his bow tie slightly and gave a polite cough. “And since we know how much you love Alice in Wonderland…”

Sandy threw his arms open in a ‘ta-da!’ gesture as the elves trotted forward with a red robe and crown. Tasha laughed.

“Is that the crown from my Queen of Hearts costume?” she inquired.

“One and the same,” Grim confirmed, popping up behind Tasha with an impossibly wide grin. “I kept my Cheshire Cat costume, too. North’s the King of Hearts, obviously, the yetis’ dressed up as cards, Jack is the Hatter, Pookie’s the March Hare, my brother’s the Dormouse-”

“Does that mean Pitch was the White Rabbit?” Natasha questioned with a giggle. “How’d you ever convince him to participate?”

“I have my ways, Tosh,” Grim purred, preening a little.

Smiling, Tasha turned to Tooth as she put on the robe and crown. “And you’re the Caterpillar?”

“The Butterfly, technically,” Tooth admitted. “I know the metamorphosis wasn’t in the book, but…”

“Oh, it’s fine, dear. I like the movie too. And it’s a lovely costume.”

Tooth twirled, letting her silk skirt flutter around her. “The girls helped me work on it,” she confided with a grin. “They’ve got costumes too: bread-and-butter flies, rocking-horse flies. I think there’s even a few snap-dragon flies flying around.”

Tasha wrapped her arms around the fairy and kissed both her cheeks. “Thank you, darling.”

“It was Grim’s idea, you know. She said she was inspired by a Halloween party…?”

Tasha turned, looking over at the Cheshire Cat and her pointy-toothed grin. She smiled gently. “Yes, I’m sure it was.”

As elves ran around the room with trays of teacups and cakes iced with the words “EAT ME,” Tasha gradually made her way over to Grim.

“Thank you for a lovely birthday party, darling,” Natasha told her.

Grim nodded absently, her eyes cast downward. Tasha followed her gaze and saw a photo clasped in the Reaper’s fingers. In it was a long-haired Cheshire Cat with a Queen of Hearts asleep on her shoulder and a brown-haired, glasses-clad Alice.

Natasha smiled down at the picture of their friend. “That was a fun Halloween party, wasn’t it? Shame our Alice couldn’t make it this time.”

Grim tucked the photo away and wiped her eyes discreetly, a more characteristic grin settling onto her face. “Yes indeed, but she wouldn’t want us to tone down the merry madness on her account. Now, although it’s not exactly typical of the Queen of Hearts, I think you should go instruct those elves over there _not_ to lose their heads.”

Tasha cackled and swept off grandly, her red robe regally flowing behind her.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jack woke up in a guest bedroom of the Pole, buried under a giant blue quilt. Digging his way out from under it, he rolled onto the floor and clambered over to the door, swiping groggily for the handle as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

It was strange, seeing the workshop empty and still. Jack wondered where the yetis slept- probably in some connected quarters with a hidden door, so the elves couldn’t wander in and pester them. The globe in the center of the room still spun, lights even brighter than usual against the darkness of the workshop.

Jack made his way down the stairs, wondering if there was an extra glass of milk sitting out somewhere, when he heard a voice.

“A little late to the party, aren’t you?”

Ducking below the railing, he peered around the end of the stair rail and saw Grim’s black-robed back, her new wings stretching out skeletal and strange behind her.

“Just trying to stay in character,” answered a familiar, faintly amused-sounding voice.

“If you’d really wanted to stay in character you could’ve at least worn a waistcoat to go with the watch.”

Jack craned his neck a bit, trying to see if he could spot the Boogeyman, when he felt something brush his foot. He flinched, looking down to see a large black dog lying on the bottom stair. He scratched the dark furry head behind its ear as he strained to listen in on the conversation between the Reaper and the Nightmare King.

“You said I was invited, with or without the ears.”

There was a soft chuckle. “I did. And you’ve chosen to go without. What a surprise.”

A pause ensued, within which the grim shuffled closer to the Guardian of Joy and put its head on Jack’s knee.

“Why did you come?” Grim asked, and Jack pictured the questioning tilt of her head as he heard her puzzled tone.

“The company.”

He could almost see the flash of pointed teeth as he heard her reply. “Because you and the Guardians are such great friends.”

“Do you really want me to spell it out?”

“I-T. I know my letters, darling.”

“I came to see you.”

Jack chanced another peek around the railing, but although he caught a glimpse of movement, he didn’t catch what Pitch gave to Grim. That turned out not to matter.

“A moss rose?” he heard her say.

“Mm. I trust you know what it signifies?”

There was another soft laugh, more incredulous this time. “And you’re choosing to announce this now because…?”

Jack couldn’t make out Pitch’s form very well- just a tall shadow, but one that seemed to shrink a little as it drew closer to Grim.

“Because there’s something I want to tell you.”

The grim snuffled and licked Jack’s hand. He gave it another ear scritch and leaned up against the railing.

“You are powerful. You’re feared, although I know you don’t wish to be. But even though you’re not all what people see you as, you are of the dark, like me, and-”

“If this is a ‘pitch’ to have us join forces and conquer the world, I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline, darling,” Grim interrupted dryly. “You know very well what I think of your attempts to stamp out Mim’s minions before their time. We have some things in common, but a wish to return the world to what it was before Mim is not one of them.”

There was another silence, and Jack tensed. He glanced back up the stairs, wondering if he should run and grab his staff. Then Pitch spoke again, and Jack jumped, jostling the grim in his lap.

Pitch’s voice wasn’t like what Jack had expected. It was…it was…

“I understand,” he said. “But there’s another way you could join me.”

Jack heard a small click and Grim’s inhale. Then her exhale, shaky and slow.

“You certainly don’t leave a girl hanging, I’ll say,” she commented, voice wavering slightly.

“I know it’s sudden.”

“I should hope you know it’s sudden. I didn’t even know you loved me until a minute ago, and now-”

Jack’s eyes widened, and he huddled a little closer to the grim on his knee.

“Only a minute ago? What about last week?”

“There’s a world of difference between caring about someone and loving them, dear.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I wasn’t lying, but-”

He heard a single footstep. “But?”

A sigh. Jack imagined the shake of her head, the disbelieving half-smile on her lips as she looked up at the Boogeyman. “But my question still stands. Why tell me now? Why ask me now? I’ve been married before, and you’ve never said a word. I haven’t been with anyone since Se-”

She broke off. “I don’t understand. You’ve never showed an interest in romancing me.”

“I don’t have an interest in romancing you. My offer isn’t out of any misguided altruism either- I know you don’t need me.”

“Then why are you asking me to marry you?”

Jack stopped breathing.

Pitch’s voice was quiet, almost too quiet to hear, but he could hear it.

“I do love you. Not as I would a lover, perhaps, but I think it’s safe to say you wouldn’t wish me your paramour in any case. I want you to be mine as I am yours, as I’ve always been yours. We will always be together, but I want to know if you would choose to be with me, of your own volition.”

There was another long pause.

Grim suddenly gave a bark of laughter, loud and disconcerting in the empty workshop. “You don’t want to be alone, do you? You’ve gotten lonely, now that you’re powerless and you’re not focusing on that ridiculous revenge plan. You could just try going out more, you know.”

Pitch’s voice held the hint of a snarl. “I wouldn’t be proposing if that’s all there was to it.”

Grim’s tone was amused, but not mocking. “But that’s why you’re proposing _now_ , isn’t it? Why you’ve never asked before. You’ve been forced to face how alone you are in the world.”

The snarl left the Boogeyman’s tone. “…I would’ve asked eventually, regardless.”

“And if I say no?”

Jack clenched his hands into fists, watching as frost curled up the railing.

“You weren’t obligated to say yes.”

“Of course I wasn’t, but if you’d have thought so we’d have a problem. You do realize how much power I’d have over you?”

“No more than I’d have over you.”

Jack tasted blood and realized he was biting through his lip.

“I’m not giving you my answer now,” she told him firmly.

“Then let me know when you’re giving it.”

There was another long silence, so long that Jack began trying to look around the railing again. Then he felt the hand on his shoulder and jerked away so violently that he smacked into the railing.

Grim knelt next to him, hands raised in surrender. “I’m not going to bite, verglas.”

Jack sighed. “What was that all about?”

“How much did you hear?”

“All of it.”

“Then you don’t need me to tell you. What did you think?”

Jack frowned. “Did Pitch ever tell you about Antarctica?”

“He said he tried to sway you to his side there. When that didn’t work, he held a tooth fairy hostage to make you hand over your staff before knocking you into a crevasse. Did he leave something out?”

Jack cleared his throat and did his best imitation of Pitch’s velvet voice. “‘What goes better together than cold and dark?’ Just saying, he’s tried the whole ‘We’ve got a lot in common, you and I’ thing before.”

She snorted. “He said that? _Someone_ had it bad for you.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Ew, gross.”

Grim chuckled. “I know he’s made offers not dissimilar to this one before, mon flocon de neige. I’m asking what you would think if I took him up on this one.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Why?”

She shrugged. “Pitch knows me well enough to have an idea of what I will and will not tolerate. I have my boundaries set with him. And if I married him-”

“Uh, no, wait, that’s not what I’m asking. Why should you care what _I_ think? I mean, don’t you want to ask Tasha or Bunny first? Why me?”

Grim’s smile was gentle, and a bit sad. “I’m fairly sure what their input on this would be, and while I will ask them what their thoughts on the matter are, yours are the ones I need to know most here. I know we haven’t been friends long, dear, but I value our relationship. I don’t want to lose you ag- I don’t want to lose you as a friend because of this.”

Jack drummed his fingers on the stair. “I mean, I guess I’d be happy for you? If you’re really sure you want to marry _Pitch_. You guys do have matching aesthetics, but I think you might disagree on home décor.”

“Hah. I don’t think there’s anywhere to plug in my refrigerator in his ‘lair’ anyway.”

She glanced over at him, stroking the back of the grim draped over his legs. “Would you truly still be comfortable being friends with me? If I was his wife.”

“I mean, sure. As long as you don’t try to kill me or anything, we’re cool.”

Grim smiled. “Well, _you’d_ be cool no matter what, darling.”

The Guardians, and a few disgruntled yetis, awoke to the sound of bright laughter ringing through the workshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the reason I added the Pitch Black/Original Female Character(s) tag. I tried to write Grim and Pitch's relationship in a way that made it clear that their love is pragmatic, storgic, based on familiarity and convenience. That kind of love isn't any less valid, but I don't see it represented much, so I wanted to show that kind of love here.


	43. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the finale, folks.

Bunny watched Grim sip daintily from a black mug.

“What’s that you got there?”

“Rabbit stew,” she answered, and flashed her pointy-toothed grin.

He scoffed and grabbed the mug from her, taking a slurp. “That summer squash in there?”

“Yes, and zucchini squash.”

Bunny snorted. “Rabbit stew, eh?”

“I wasn’t lying, Pookie. It’s rabbit stew- stew for a rabbit.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, what did you think I meant, dear?”

“Don’t try to be cute, Grimace.”

She sighed dramatically. “Can’t help it. I’m just so adorable that it can’t be contained.”

“You, adorable? Could’ve fooled me.”

Grim swatted his arm as he took another swig of stew. “Be nice.”

“I’ll start when you start,” he replied, handing her back the mug.

She casually gulped down the last of the stew and dropped the mug. It touched the ground and promptly vanished into the shadows. “So we’ve agreed to live in a state of mutual antagonism for the rest of our lives?”

“I think that’s called marriage.”

Grim tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “Are we married? Hm. I doubt my husband will approve of that.”

“Still don’t know why you married that shadow-sneaking ratbag. He’s prolly just using you for your powers,” Bunny commented.

She laughed, putting a hand underneath his chin. Their shadows stretched around them, twisting, shifting. The Guardian of Hope glanced behind his companion and glimpsed the silhouette of feathered wings beneath Grim’s skeletal ones.

“And who says I’m not doing the same with him?” she purred, a Cheshire Cat grin splitting her face.

Bunny smiled resignedly. “We won’t be go any easier on him because you’re married, you know.”

“Mim forbid,” she said, and disappeared.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jack ducked as Sandy’s whip sliced the air above his head, hearing the snap of dreamsand hitting bone behind him.

“An undead army? Seriously, Pitch? The Nightmares might’ve been a dark army prepared to take over the world, but they weren’t _this_ cliché.”

A chain hooked around his ankle. Before Jack could free himself, he was yanked to the ground, and the Boogeyman was sneering down at him with the other end of the chain in one hand and a blacksand blade in the other.

“And yet the plucky team of heroes fights on to keep the darkness at bay. Pot and kettle, Frost.”

Jack shrugged and shot a stream of ice at the Nightmare King’s chest as he unhooked his foot from the loop of chain. Pitch dodged, though he wasn’t quite quick enough to keep his blade arm from being frozen. “We’d be calling you Black either way. Hey, does Grim know about them?”

He indicated the unliving army charging at the Guardians, blacksand and shadows swirling through amalgamations of tangled bone and metal.

“She’s aware of their existence,” Pitch answered shortly, swinging the chain at Jack’s head.

Jack ducked and froze a length of the weapon to the ground. “I’m guessing she didn’t approve your little craft project.”

“She didn’t stop me from making them, either,” Pitch replied, yanking the chain free of the ice with one swift movement.

The Guardian of Joy raised an eyebrow. “So she’s okay with this?”

Pitch frowned and opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by Tooth flying up behind him and smacking him hard on the head with the pommel of her sword.

Jack froze a revenant that was about to attack the fairy as Pitch dropped to the ground. “About time. I was running out of annoying questions.”

“I’m actually curious about the answers to those annoying questions,” Tooth remarked, stabbing through an undead soldier before swinging her blade, impaled body and all, into another skeletal warrior.

Jack chewed his lip as the undead army slowly began to realize their leader was unconscious and lying prone. “So if the Nightmares turned on Pitch last time, what do you think the killer zombie nightmare sand cocktails will do?”

Tooth raised her now undead-free sword warily as another revenant approached them slowly. “In my experience, the undead fight on tirelessly, no matter what. If no one’s here to command them, they’ll probably just keep going blindly.”

“Really? Because twenty bucks says they’ll turn on Pitch.”

The fairy laughed. “Twenty bucks and a martini says they’ll fight on to the last man.”

“If I win, can I get a rum and coke instead of a martini?”

“Sure.”

“It’s a bet, then.”

Jack and Tooth stood with backs facing each other, weapons at the ready as the revenants surrounded them.

The warriors swarmed Pitch, melting into the shadows and dragging their leader with them.

Jack relaxed, tapping the crook of his staff on the ground where the Boogeyman had lain. “Looks like you owe me a drink, Tooth.”

Tooth glanced down. “Railroaded by an undead army…I don’t envy him.”

“Hey, it was his undead army. He deserved it.”

“You really think so? It’s a rough fate.”

“Heck yeah I think so; I bet Grim would too. Care for another gamble?”

Tooth shrugged and sheathed her sword. “I’m not betting against that. What do you think her opinion of the undead army is?”

“Probably indifferent.”

“Ten bucks says she doesn’t like them any more than we do.”

“Done. Hey, when do I get my twenty bucks?”

“We’ll settle up tomorrow. I hope you have somewhere besides your pockets to put change…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jack sat in a tree, sipping at his rum and coke as he took a break from snowball-making. A shadow moved in the corner of his eye, and he turned, fixing his gaze below.

“Pitch?”

Grim crossed her arms as she smirked up at him. “You really need to learn the difference between me and our mutual acquaintance, verglas.”

Jack hopped down from his branch seat, balancing his drink carefully. “Sorry. Don’t know how I couldn’t tell- you’re a lot prettier than the Boogeyman.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m glad to hear you think so, mon flocon de neige. Though it’s not the most unbelievable mistake- we both share a rather grim demeanor.”

Jack looked to the sky and groaned as Grim cackled.

“What did I do to deserve this _pun_ ishment?” he asked, taking a gulp of his rum and coke.

“Come on, darling- what’s with the _frosty_ reception?”

“Don’t you have anyone else to _pitch_ your comedy routine to?”

“Not a fan of _black_ humor? Fine, but you needn’t be so _cold_.”

Jack chuckled. “Speaking of Black, what did you think of his little plan this time?”

She wrinkled her nose. “So he actually did it. Why am I not surprised?”

“Yep. His army turned on him, too, just like last time. You know, I think I heard something once about doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Grim frowned. “They turned on him?”

“Yeah, once they realized they’d lost.”

The Reaper’s brow creased. “Mm. I should probably go check on him; pardon my cutting our visit short.”

Jack saluted as she melted into shadows. “Goodbye ‘til next time, then.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pitch awoke in a bed covered by a gold-colored blanket. He sat up, rubbing a hand across his eyes, and flinched at the loud crack of a blade hitting bone.

“Ah, good, you’re up.”

Pitch glanced over to see his wife swinging her scythe about, keeping a swarm of blacksand skeletons at bay. Multiple undead fell with every strike, breaking apart like paper turning to ash in a flame.

He grunted. “I suppose this is where you say ‘I told you so?’”

Grim kicked a particularly feisty revenant aside, stomping on its fingers when it attempted to keep itself from tumbling into the chasm below. “Well, what did you expect to happen? You know the undead can’t be controlled, not really.”

He sighed and lay back down, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. “The nightmare sand should’ve-”

“Because how could combining the inconsistent loyalty of your Nightmares and the unpredictable rage of those lingering on earth past their time possibly go wrong?”

The Boogeyman chuckled. “I ought to have had you as my general. They’d not have dared to lose.”

Grim struck down the last of the undead and sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at her husband. “What part of ‘can’t be controlled’ isn’t getting through to you? The only time the undead ever listen to me is when I manage to persuade them to let go of their past, and that’s hardly a surefire tactic.”

Pitch examined the blanket. “By the by, I’d like to commend you on your choice of color. It’s…surprisingly inoffensive.”

“Well if I’d brought in something _fun_ you’d have refused to keep it in the lair. Besides, the color brings out your eyes.”

Grim lay next to him and smoothed his hair. He felt a caress on his back and grinned. “Too much work to reach around me?”

Grim smiled as the shadow she was controlling curled next to her husband’s neck. “What’s the point in sharing your powers if I can’t fool around with them a bit, hm?”

Pitch clasped her left hand in both of his and ran his thumb over the black band of metal encircling her finger. “Mm. Do you suppose I’d have better luck using revenants to take over the world if I asked them nicely?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re free to try. I doubt it would keep you from being beaten again.”

“Your confidence in me is truly inspiring.”

“Oh, I know you’ll have your victory someday. It simply won’t happen with the Guardians around.” Grim reached up with her right hand and tapped the ring Pitch was wearing on his left. “And don’t think they’ll be disappearing any sooner because of _this_. I won’t take your side just because we’re married.”

Pitch snorted. “As if I could ever be so deluded to think so.”

“I was only clarifying things, darling. Your loving me hasn’t changed _you_ a whit; _I’m_ not changing just because I love you.”

He laughed and kissed her ring. “Mim forbid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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